


A tip to my lips (just reminds me to breathe)

by alexaprilgarden



Series: The Matilda Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Domesticity, Family Issues, First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Loss, M/M, Parentlock, Raising a Child, Redbeard - Freeform, Romance, Siblings, Smut, Trust Issues, former drug use, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 42,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: Mary is gone. John is left with his new-born daughter. Sherlock cares. And John finds that he doesn't want to do this on his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @tooselin and @ennisapril for being the most patient, helpful and fun-to-work-with betas. You're amazing.  
> Thanks to @couchpoppy for listening endlessly, patiently to my rant about this fic and for your great plot advices. :)
> 
> \---
> 
> Still, English isn't my first languages. If you spot any mistakes, typos, whatever - just let me know.

John walks out of the hospital room onto the ward. After a few steps, he stares at the baby in his arm. She is so tiny and suddenly he feels awfully alone with her. And so awfully responsible. 

Behind him, the door of Mary’s room opens. One of the soldiers comes out and then Mary’s bed is being pushed out by a nurse. Mary has her eyes closed, looking pale and exhausted. The second soldier follows. John looks at this odd group. It is making its ways down the ward to the elevator, taking Mary to a future of confinement and penalty, just as Mycroft had planned it. When he had proved she still was an active assassin, an essential part of Moriarty’s shattered network and the group that intended to bring him back again, he and Sherlock had come up with a plan: Mary would give birth to her child and then be taken to prison. They discussed things with John. He agreed. 

They disappear through heavy doors and are gone. Out of sight and out of his life. 

He turns around, sighing. Sherlock is standing at the other end of the ward, a baby car seat next to him. His tall, dark figure and his coat, his familiar silhouette. John doesn’t feel quite as alone anymore. Sherlock has been waiting on the ward ever since they drove to hospital late last night. John moves and walks towards Sherlock. 

“Mycroft has sent a car. It’s waiting downstairs.“ 

“Thanks, Sherlock.“ 

John briefly squeezes his arm. 

“Maybe we should put her in the seat right now. We’ve got the bag to carry, the seat... Might be a bit much. Can you hold her for a sec?“ 

Sherlock looks a bit lost, but then he says, “Of course.“ 

She looks even smaller in his arms. John has to swallow down a lump in his throat as he sees how careful, how caringly Sherlock handles her. 

“How old is she?“ 

Sherlock’s voice has gone to a whisper. 

“Just about two and a half hours. After she was checked by the nurses and the paediatrician Mary had some time with her to say good-bye.“ 

He has to swallow again. 

“Does she have a name yet?“ 

“Matilda. We both liked it.“ 

“Matilda. That’s beautiful. Hello, Matilda.“ 

Sherlock smiles. Matilda seems to be looking at him through dark eyes with the curiosity, understanding and agelessness of a baby that is looking at the world for the very first time. 

The cab takes them to John’s house in the suburbs. John carries Matilda into the house while Sherlock pays the cabbie and gets the bag. 

“Is there anything I can do, John?“ he asks. 

John lies down on the sofa with Matilda in his arms. 

“No. Just stay here. I’ve got no idea when she will be hungry again. Later on, the midwife will come and see her, check if everything works out with feeding and so on.“ 

Sherlock takes off his coat and shoes. After a while, John adds, “I… I just wouldn’t like being in my own now.“ 

Sherlock sits down on the floor next to the sofa. A few minutes pass in silence. Then he asks, “What was it like? Birth?“ 

John rubs a hand over his face. 

“Everything went fine, no complications. Labour was hard, but Mary managed great.” 

He pauses. 

“It’s hard to describe, witnessing a child being born. I hadn’t seen any births before, even though I’m a doctor. Suddenly it was so _real_. I’ve got a daughter now. I can’t go back to my life the way it was before.” 

He caresses Matilda’s head. The little girl is awake, taking in John’s heartbeat and John and Sherlock speaking in low voices. The smell of John’s jumper and of his skin. 

Sherlock watches them. He doesn’t quite know how to handle any of this or how this will affect his life. _But if John can do it, I can do it, too. Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always._ They stay like that for a while without speaking. 

“Sherlock, I need something to eat and the loo. Care to hold her again?“ 

Sherlock gets up and stretches out his hands. 

“Lie down. Or lean against the back rest, at least. It’s more comfortable that way.“ 

And so Sherlock lies down in the same position John lay, the sofa still warm from his body. Matilda is a soft, light weight against his chest. Radiating warmth and a smell completely unknown to him. He puts his nose to her tiny head until he touches her light hair. Everything is soft about her. Her face looks a bit red and, well, crumpled. Her nose reminds him of John’s. A lot, actually. She blinks slowly. 

“Hey, little bumble. Everything’s quite new, isn’t it? You’ll get used to it. You have plenty of time. Don’t worry.“ 

And before he knows what he is doing, he places a kiss on her small forehead. He blushes and looks up to see if John has seen this. 

_Thank goodness, he is not here._

He sighs with relief. He looks at her small ears, her tiny nose. He touches her fingers, so small and fragile against his. He wishes he had his magnifying glass (even though John might find that _a bit not good_ ). He looks at the miniature lines on her finger tips. 

_Unique, every cell and every inch of her._

Matilda patiently lets him catalogue her. He knows she can’t see much yet with her limited newborn eyesight. She listens to the rhythm of his breath and his heart instead. Still, he feels oddly _seen_ when she looks at him. 

“Where is your dad? Has he fallen asleep on the way to the bathroom?“ Sherlock whispers. 

“I’m right here, Sherlock. Just came back. I needed a moment to myself. You want something to eat, too?“ 

“Yes. Please.“ 

“How about Chinese?“ 

“Sounds good.“ 

He hears John talking on the phone and smiles at Matilda. 

“Well, Sherlock,” John says when has finished his call, “I can take her back now, if you want to.“ 

Sherlock doesn’t actually want that, but he leans up and gently lifts Matilda from his chest. 

“There you go. Your dad is here.“ 

“Still sounds strange. Dad.“ 

John lies down with her, pressing his lips on the exact same spot on Matilda’s head Sherlock has kissed her. 

“Hey, Matilda. Everything fine?“ 

She looks at John. She blows her miniature nostrils and yawns. Both John and Sherlock are amazed and stare at this little gesture in undisguised wonder. 

“Christ, she is _so_ small. I can’t believe I’ve got a daughter now.“ 

“She has got your nose, John.“ 

“You really think so?“ 

“Absolutely. Just look at her. But she is almost bald. Unlike you.“ 

“She isn’t bald, Sherlock. She’s just got very fine, very light hair that’s hard to see.“ 

He lightly strokes her head. 

“What kind of hair did you have as a baby?“ 

“Hm, dark hair. And quite a lot. But no curls until I was three or so.“ 

John tries to imagine a three-year-old Sherlock. And, maybe it is all to be blamed on hormones, he finds this thought quite endearing. 

“Glad you’re here. Really.“ 

“Anytime, John.“ 

Matilda falls asleep for a while. When the door bell rings and their food is being delivered, John sits up, resting her on his arm. Just when he is about to eat, she opens her eyes. With a small whimper she starts moving her mouth in an odd manner. 

“What’s that, John? What does she want?“ 

“Er, don’t know.“ 

She starts moving her head towards John, her whimpering getting louder and more desperate. 

“Might be hungry. It’s been a while. Sherlock, get her bottle out of my bag. There’s milk powder in the kitchen. Put water in the kettle and heat it up. You’ll find the instructions on the milk powder box.“ 

Sherlock does as told, preparing her milk exactly as described on the milk powder box. But the milk is too hot to drink and Matilda sounds very hungry by now. Hastily, Sherlock opens the cold water tab and cools the bottle. 

“There. Try.“ 

He hands the bottle to John. Matilda’s small face partly vanishes behind the bottle. She has to try a few times until she has found out how to get the milk out of the bottle best. She swallows greedily. After some minutes, she drinks less hastily. Her eyes fall shut and she opens them again, taking a few more eager sips of her milk. When she lets go of the bottle, John puts it on the table. 

“I’ll eat in a minute, when I put her in her crib. Oh Sherlock, you should get started, it’s getting cold.“ 

Sherlock has been so fascinated by Matilda that he completely forgot about lunch. 

Before John has the chance to put his sleeping daughter into her crib, the doorbell rings again. 

“Hello, John.” 

It is the midwife, Linda. 

“Yeah, hi Linda. Good to see you. Come in.” 

Linda enters the room and nods at Sherlock. 

“Here’s Matilda, she just fell asleep a couple of minutes ago,“ John adds. 

“Such a lovely girl. How has she been? Can I see her red book with the paediatrician’s notes?“ 

Linda checks the red PCHR book and asks a few questions about her birth. She takes Matilda so carefully that she doesn’t even wake up and checks her. Then she instructs John about how to change her nappies, gives advice on feeding, burping and how to take care of her healing navel. John asks a few things and when they are almost done, Linda adds, „Do get some sleep whenever you can, John. She’ll probably want her bottle every few hours. Do you have someone to help you?“ 

John is about to say something, but Sherlock interrupts him. 

“Yes. I’ll help John.“ 

“That’s great. But do get some sleep as well. Remember, it takes some time to get used to this new situation. For all three of you.“ 

“Yes, of course, Linda.“ 

“If you need me or if you’ve got any questions, you can call me anytime. Here’s my mobile number. I’ll come and see you tomorrow at 11, ok?“ 

When Linda is gone, John puts Matilda in her crib. They heat up their cold take-away in the microwave and finally have lunch. John has lost any sense of time. When he has finished his fried rice, his eyes are red with exhaustion. 

“You go to bed and sleep, John. I’ll stay here and take care of Matilda. Come on, off you go.“ 

John doesn’t even argue. He falls asleep in his bedroom within ten seconds. 

Sherlock takes the plates into the kitchen and then lies down on the sofa. The crib stands beside him and he can hear Matilda’s steady breathing. He dozes off after a few minutes as well. 


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, Sherlock stays at John’s house for five days in a row, sleeping on the sofa. He briefly goes back to Baker Street to get a few things – clothes, toothbrush, pyjamas – but he doesn’t even bring his laptop. Their days are completely filled with feeding Matilda, eating and sleeping whenever she lets them. 

After these five days, Sherlock only goes back to 221b because Lestrade needs his help with a case. After days of ignoring his calls and texts, Sherlock gives in to his pleas for help. When he comes home from Scotland Yard, he finds Mycroft in his living room. 

“Sherlock. Mary has been taken care of,“ he states. “As we discussed it. And she is recovering from giving birth quickly.“ 

“She agreed to the deal?“ 

“Yes. No extradition to the US authorities. In return, she cooperates with us. She has signed the papers declaring her renunciation of custody of her daughter and the annulment of her marriage with John. She also handed over information on several bank accounts with a considerable amount of money. It has already been confiscated and shall be transferred to John’s account within the next days.“ 

“What are you going to do with her?“ 

“I will think of something. But rest assured, Sherlock. She will never walk free again.“ 

“Good. Very good.“ 

“You will inform John, I take it? He will get a full dossier soon.“ 

“Yes. And – thank you.“ 

When Mycroft has left, Sherlock sits in his chair. The flat feels empty and silent. How did he get used to being around both John and Matilda so quickly? 

The next day, Sherlock tells John about Mycroft’s visit. John listens without saying a word. He just clenches and unclenches his fist. 

“That – was good work. Good work indeed. Thanks. To both of you.“ 


	3. Chapter 3

Matilda occupies John completely. He is grateful that Sherlock is around quite often, helping him or taking care of Matilda. John shows him how to feed her, how to change her nappies and clothes. Linda comes over a few more times throughout the next days, checking on Matilda. 

_When something really big in your life happens,_ he thinks as he is putting dirty clothes into the washing machine, _you lose every sense of time. She has just been here for twelve days, but my old life seems to be light years away already._

Things are exhausting and, if he is honest with himself, quite intimidating. He didn’t have a choice but doing it this way, taking Matilda to raise her on his own. He somewhat didn’t have a choice about having a baby, in the first place. It isn’t exactly easy for him. He goes back to the living room, where Sherlock is carrying her and looking out of the windows. 

“Sherlock, would you mind if I just went to Tesco’s? I think we’ve run out of... everything.” 

“I can do that, that’s no problem.” 

“No, no. I think I’d just love to go out on my own for once. I feel as if I hadn’t left the house at all since we came back from hospital.” 

“Actually you have left only on two occasions. So. Do go.” 

“It’s ok if you stay here with Matilda?” 

“It is. Of course it is.” 

John takes his coat, puts on his shoes and looks at Sherlock and Matilda. Sherlock is whispering something to her and she looks calm and content. John didn’t expect Sherlock to get on with Matilda so well. In fact, he wasn’t sure how he would react to her at all. He surely wouldn’t have thought he would stay with them so much. Or look after her while John goes out for a while, even if it is just a quick walk over to the supermarket. 

_It’s only a question of time until he wants to go back to his work and take cases again. I will see a lot less of him then._

He sighs. He hates the thought of that, of not having Sherlock around, the estrangement that is inevitable to follow – again. 

_Once you’ve got kids, you lose your old friends._ _Your old life._ _Especially when you’re a single parent with no family or grandparents around._

He has to think of Mrs Hudson. 

_She’d love Matilda like a grandmother. I should go and see her. Show her the little one. Maybe she’d like to come over every now and then. God, it would be so much easier if I was at Baker Street…_

And with that, a small idea is born in his mind. 

_Oh, it’s madness. I can’t live at Baker Street with a baby. Sherlock would hate it. (Would he, though? He actually looks as if he is totally in love with her.) Body parts and baby food jars in the fridge? And milk powder next to acid chemicals on the cupboard? Solving cases over toy bricks? Taking Matilda out on crime scenes? And what do I do if Sherlock agrees at first and then changes his mind? Madness, John, it’s madness. – But still. I wouldn’t be so bloody on my own. She’d have other people than me around. Maybe… there would be a chance I wouldn’t lose Sherlock after all._ __

_He sighs, trying to shake off these thoughts._ __

_At least, there is one thing less I have to worry about. Money,_ John thinks as he pays for the groceries. John has never had much money. In fact, there have been a lot of times when he was rather short of it. His parents were just lower middle class. They were proud that he was clever and hard-working enough to study medicine. But the idea of supporting him financially during his university years didn’t make them happy. After being constantly broke during his studies, the army was also a good choice. Next to promising a rather unusual way of life, it guaranteed a regular, reasonable income and financial independence. He had saved some money during the years he served, but it evaporated again when he was shot and out of work. The army pension really didn’t get him very far in London, even by his moderate standard of living. 

So, for the first time in his life, he finds himself with quite lot of money on his account. He didn’t even start pondering over whether he had a right to have that AGRA treasure. The money was probably earned by assassinating people or other things he doesn’t want to know about. Maybe the best use of it was to ensure that another life started safe and free from financial worries. John decided to place a good part of it in a bank account with a promising interest rate. The rest he would take for him and Matilda to live on it – so he isn’t forced to work at the clinic as long as she is very small. _Thank goodness for Mycroft and his omnipotent pragmatism._

When he comes home with bags filled with food, Sherlock is lying on the sofa, reading something on his phone. Matilda sleeps on his chest. 

“Look, little bee, your dad is home,” he whispers as John carries the bags into the kitchen. 

“Hey, Sherlock. You could have put her in the crib, right?” 

“I know. But I think she prefers it this way. Must be weird, lying in a crib all alone after nine months of symbiosis. And actually, I don’t mind.” 

_Right. Completely in love with my newborn daughter, this madman. Maybe it would work out after all._


	4. Chapter 4

The idea of moving back to Baker Street lingers in John’s mind. Even more so when Sherlock is gone and he is on his own with Matilda. They are settling into a routine, John and Matilda, and he knows he would manage on his own. Of course he would. But on most evenings he doesn’t really know what he has done all day. He is just feeding Matilda, changing her nappies and her clothes. Managing to eat something himself and having a shower in between. Trying to sleep while she does. Going to the supermarket or doing the laundry. Sometimes there isn’t even time for that. He is busy all day doing the most basic things to keep their lives going. He is weirdly exhausted and he hopes it will get better. Somehow. Some day. 

_How do people do this? Manage all of this? It’s just a_ baby _._

He has to think of his own mother, how she dealt with two small children – Harry was barely two when John was born. His father was no big help, at work throughout the day and probably at the pub at night. 

_Really, how do people do that?_

He is glad whenever Sherlock is around. It is good not to be on his own all day with Matilda. And it is good to have Sherlock looking after her so John can shower without hurrying. Or simply clean up the mess in the kitchen – Matilda’s used bottles and his left-over takeaway, bowls of half-eaten weetabix soaked in milk or plates with yesterday’s dried toast. 

_Just give me a few weeks’ time and I’ll be used enough to this life to manage on my own. I just need some time._

But he has to admit he doesn’t want to get used to it, doing all of this on his own. Still, he is more than unsure if going back to Baker Street would be a good idea. He doesn’t know how Sherlock would react. If he really is the right person to ask this from. But for once in his life, he puts his worries aside and just tries it. And so, five weeks after Matilda’s birth, he feeds her, gets her dressed, puts her in her baby seat and takes a cab to Baker Street. 

Mrs Hudson peeks out of her door when John enters the hallway. 

“Oh, John! Is that the little one? Matilda?” 

“Yes, that’s her. Hello, Mrs Hudson.” 

“Oh, John. She’s adorable.” 

She bows down to Matilda’s seat, caressing her cheek with one finger. 

“Hello, my little darling! How are you?” 

Mrs Hudson smiles at John. 

“You really have to come around from time to time, John. It would break my heart not to see her.” 

“I’m… working on that, Mrs Hudson. I really am. – Er, is Sherlock in?” 

“I think so, yes. Say good-bye before you leave later on, will you?” 

Sherlock sits at the kitchen table, working on an experiment. John was a little afraid he would find the flat in a complete mess and that this would weaken his courage. But things look comparatively civilized. 

“John. Nice to see you. The two of you, that is.” 

“Yeah, hello, Sherlock.” 

“Cup of tea?” 

“That would be lovely, thanks.” 

He takes off his coat and lifts Matilda out of her seat. Sherlock fetches two mugs from the cupboard, switches on the kettle and smiles at Matilda. 

“Hey there. Nice you’ve come around. This is a fun place to stay, Matilda. You’ll love it.” 

John swallows. 

“Yes, er, Sherlock. This is actually what I want to talk to you about.” 

He clears his throat and Sherlock looks at him questioningly. 

“Well. I’ve thought about – things.” 

“Yes…?” 

“I – God, how do I say that.” 

He looks at the floor and up again. 

“I don’t want to do this on my own. Matilda. I don’t want to live in that house on my own. It’s suffocating me, that place in the suburbs. That kind if life. I – I want to ask if I can come back here. With her.“ 

Sherlock stares at John, then at Matilda and at his tea. At Matilda again and, after a while, at John. He blinks a few times. John forces himself not to say anything but to give him the time he needs to process this. 

“You. The two of you. Move back to Baker Street.” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock is obviously thinking. 

_God, I’m making a complete fool of myself. How could I even_ think _he’d agree to that–_

“Yes. Of course.” 

John exhales with relief. 

“Well, Sherlock, we might have to change a few things…” 

“Yes, fridge, I know. No more experiments in the kitchen. No chemicals within children’s reach –“ 

“– No chemicals _in the flat_.” 

“Right. I think we can do that.” 

“There would be a baby screaming at odd times of the night.” 

“I don’t sleep much at night.” 

“There might be toy bricks and dolls and dirty nappies.” 

“She would play with useful things, of course.” 

“And the nappies?” 

“You take them out to Mrs Hudson’s bins _every day_.” 

“Agreed. No secret cigarette stash in your Persian slippers or anywhere else in this flat. If she accidentally eats one of those, she’s dead.” 

“Fine with me. Quit anyway.” 

“Clients?” 

“Get used to that. Will find her adorable. People tend to lie less convincing when there’s a baby around. Might actually work for us.” 

“I might not be able to join you on cases.” 

“Mrs Hudson could look after her.” 

“I might not want to risk being shot in some dark alley and leave an orphaned child behind.” 

“Good point. No dark alleys, then. Less dangerous cases.” 

“Good.” 

“Yes.” 

“Sounds like we have a plan.” 

“Yes, it does.” 

John smiles at Matilda. And when he looks back at Sherlock, he can see him smiling, too. 

_Madman. He_ wants _this, actually._


	5. Chapter 5

John and Matilda move back into 221b just some days later. John brings their clothes, some books, his laptop and Matilda’s stuff. When they arrive at Baker Street, he finds the flat perfectly clean and the fridge free of body parts. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson have already gotten rid of all dangerous and grisly things in the flat. 

They put up the crib and the changing table in John’s bedroom. It doesn’t take long until they have settled in. John feels excited, giddy and so relieved. It is the first time in he doesn’t know how many months that the future doesn’t look dark or intimidating. Even that doubtful little voice is quiet. That voice asking what they are going to do when Sherlock one day gets bored with this kind of life – calmer, less exciting, but definitely with more responsibilities and restrictions. With more normality. 

When he has put all his clothes back in his wardrobe and Matilda’s things in the drawers under the changing table, he goes downstairs. Sherlock is lying on the sofa with her, his thumbs hooked into her little hands. 

“You’re a strong little girl, Matilda. That’s good. Look, there’s your dad. He has lived here before. He likes this place, too.” 

“So. Does she like it then?” 

“Of course, John. Look at her. She’s perfectly happy.“ 

“She always is when one takes his time, cuddles her and talks to her. Not to mention feeding her and changing her nappies. Actually, she is exceptionally happy when _you_ do that.” 

Sherlock smiles. 

“Sherlock, I’d like to go for a walk. Regent’s Park, maybe. We could take Matilda in her pram. What do you think?” 

“Fine. Let’s go.“ 

It is only a few minutes’ walk to Regent’s Park. As he pushes Matilda’s pram, Sherlock walking by his side, he can’t help but thinking that they look like two fathers with their child. 

_Christ_ _, that’s what we_ are _, somehow. Or what we_ _..._ _might be_ _?_

He is quite aware that this implies something more than taking care of Matilda together. Something about _them_. But he is simply too occupied with arranging his and his daughter’s life to worry about his sexuality. Or the state of his relationship with Sherlock. His priorities have shifted and, _honestly_ , if things develop into that direction, well – it doesn’t frighten him as much as it used to. _I never would have guessed I’d see it this way, one day._

There is no one else in his life that could compare to Sherlock, no one whose company he enjoys – needs – so much. And he definitely is done with dating. He hasn’t thought of women recently. Or sex, that is. He still doesn’t dare giving this much thought, Sherlock and him. It feels like a topic too dangerous to touch. Sherlock is always a bit of a mystery, always a bit unpredictable. John never quite knows what he is up to next. But, after all, he is fairly used to that. Who knows what will become of them. 

_Who knows. Really, who knows._

That night, Matilda falls asleep right after they have had dinner (bottle for her, Mrs Hudson’s welcome-home-lasagna for them). When John comes downstairs to the living room with the baby phone in his hand, he suddenly yearns for his chair. 

“Oh God, how I’ve missed this,“ he says as he slumps down in it. Sherlock sits in his, reading. John shimmies his feet into Sherlock’s chair, right next to his legs. Sherlock makes a little room for him, briefly looks at him over his paper and goes back to reading. John realizes he hasn’t brought a book or anything else to read. His mobile is out of reach. And he definitely is too tired and too lazy to get up again. So he just leans into his chair until his head rests against the back and watches their flat. 

“Telly?“ Sherlock asks without looking at him. 

“No, it’s fine.“ 

“You’re thinking.“ 

“Not really. Just glad to be back.“ 

Sherlock smiles at his paper, a genuine, open smile. 

“You actually like this, Sherlock, don’t you?” 

“Like what?” 

“Having Matilda around.” 

“Well. Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t quite know. I didn’t… expect it to be like that with her.” 

“Yeah.” 

“She’s fascinating.” 

“She is.” 

“I do also like having you around. It’s good that you’re back.” 

_Oh._

John doesn’t know what to say. 

_It seems we have got a slightly different level of communication. I am definitely_ not _ready for that just now._

“Care for a drink?” Sherlock asks, leading the conversation to less awkward topics again. 

“That would be lovely. Thanks.” 

Sherlock pours them two glasses of whisky and hands one over to John. The whisky burns pleasantly in his throat, leaving a trace of warmth inside his body. It tastes malty and smoky and soft and strong at the same time. 

_Much like I’d imagine Sherlock would taste. --- Oh my God. I did not just think that, did I? Christ._

He closes his eyes, doing his best to hide his thoughts. His _bloody unasked associations_ about Sherlock. Apparently it even works, since Sherlock starts telling him about the last case Lestrade asked him to help him with. After a moment or two, John opens his eyes, following Sherlock’s string of deductions and explanations. 

He walks up the stairs to his bedroom one and a half hours later. Matilda is asleep, lying in her crib, her small hands curled into fists lying next to her head. She smiles in her sleep. A wave of affection rolls over John. He resists the urge to lift her up and cuddle her. He just bows down and kisses her tiny cheek. Only minutes later, he falls asleep, his limbs heavy from the whisky and his mind peacefully blank. 


	6. Chapter 6

Being back at Baker Street is an improvement, to say the very least. Sherlock was at the house in the suburbs as often as he could. But it is something completely different having him around more or less constantly. It makes most everyday situations easier, but the most significant difference is the nights. 

Matilda still wakes up in the middle of the night quite often. After a few weeks, Sherlock starts taking her when John doesn’t succeed in putting her back to sleep again. John goes back to bed, eternally grateful for Sherlock’s minimal need of sleep. Sherlock carries her around for hours on end. Eventually, he finds out that playing her soothing pieces on the violin makes her calm down when she won’t stop crying. He is endlessly patient even when John has reached a point of exhaustion-induced impatience and slight despair. John feels a little bad about it, but he is also glad that sometimes, he gets the chance of spending some time on his own. Even if it is just while he goes shopping at Tesco or does the laundry. 

And he is confused. How can he feel two things at once? He is happy to be here, with Sherlock and Matilda. And still he can’t just relax, can’t believe that this is how they might be living from now on. Something restless and cautious, something ever vigilant watches out for the bad surprise. The waking from a good dream. 

\--- 

John should have really seen it coming. Matilda has been in a bad mood and crying all day. He feeds her sitting in his chair, rather exhausted from a long day with a grumpy three-month-old. Of course, she didn’t sleep enough, either. When he lifts her up to lean her against his shoulder, she casts an odd look at him. _Odd_. He didn’t know his daughter could look at him in an _odd_ way. And before he can give this any further thought, he hears an unusual choking noise from her. Matilda is throwing up. And she quite hits the neck of his jumper with her vomit. Warm milk – an astonishing amount of warm milk – is running down his chest, his back, into his trousers and his pants. Her little onesie is spilled with milk, too. And she starts crying at the unfamiliar sensation. 

“Oh love, come on, it’s alright. It’s alright. You just threw up, like any good baby does from time to time.“ 

John rushes over to the kitchen, leaving milk stains on his way, and grabs a tea towel. He cleans Matilda’s face and hands and starts peeling off her milk-stained clothes. When she is stripped down to her nappy, he kneels down, puts her on a second towel on the kitchen floor and takes off his own clothes. He leaves his pants on despite the sour smelling milk on them. With one armful of weeping Matilda and another armful of vomit-stained clothes, he rushes towards the bathroom. He doesn’t notice that the light is switched on and water is running. In the bathroom, he dumps the bundle of clothes on the floor next to the laundry basket. Then he spots Sherlock’s clothes folded next to the water basin. 

_Oh fuck._

He turns, naked except for his pants. Sherlock is in the tub, just partly covered by the foam on the water. 

“God, sorry, Sherlock – hang on, I’ll be gone again in a sec...“ 

Not daring to look at Sherlock again, he quickly takes a towel. He puts it in the sink, switches on the warm water for a few seconds, then spills some soap on it. He takes the wet, soapy towel. Still, the image of his naked torso ( _yes_ , including that dark patch of pubic hair and probably even his cock) is burned into his mind. 

Matilda’s weeping has softened. He rushes out of the bathroom again and climbs up the stairs to their bedroom. He lies her on her changing table to clean her more thoroughly. She looks at him with large, dark-blue eyes. 

“Yes, dear, that’s better. Let’s get you dressed properly again. Come here, love, there’s new clothes.“ 

When he finishes the last button on her new romper, he pauses for a moment. 

“Now what was that, Matilda? Should one be so shaken by walking in on his flatmate in the tub? It’s not like I’ve seen him naked for the first time.“ 

Matilda tries to put her tiny fist in her mouth instead of replying. 

“You’re hungry again? Is your belly better? Maybe you should have some fennel tea then. That’ll help you.“ 

John puts on some fresh clothes, too. Matilda doesn’t like the tea very much. But apparently it soothes her upset stomach enough to let her fall asleep half an hour later. 

He goes downstairs to have a proper shower and almost bumps into Sherlock, now wearing a worn-out t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. John can’t help but think of his naked body underneath. He quickly lowers his gaze, afraid it might give him away when he looks at Sherlock. When he is almost at the bathroom door, he stops and turns halfway. 

“Er, sorry about earlier. We’ve had a bit of an emergency, Matilda threw up almost all of her bottle and we were both quite a mess.“ 

“She never did that before. Is she ill?” 

“I think it just happens from time to time. No fever, though. We’ll have to see.” 

He pauses. 

“She’s sleeping now. I’ve put the baby phone on the kitchen table. Could you listen in case she’s sick again?“ 

“Yep.“ 

“Thanks. Right. I’ll just have a shower.“ 

And so John goes to the bathroom. _Sherlock looks bloody fucking amazing without clothes_ written all over his mind. 

\--- 

Sherlock doesn’t bother listening to the baby phone. Instead, he goes right upstairs to John’s and Matilda’s bedroom. He opens the door without making a sound and walks over to her crib. She is asleep and everything looks normal. Sherlock kisses her soft hair. It’s longer now and this afternoon in the sun, it glistened in a warm shade of gold. 

“Sleep well, little firefly. And try not to throw up while you sleep. If you have to, just let us know, so John can lift you up.“ 

He sits down on John’s bed and watches her for a few minutes. Her chest is heaving with her breath. The sight of Matilda sleeping is the most calming thing Sherlock can think of these days. 

John grounds him, lets him think better. He is, after all, his _conductor of light_. John’s presence makes him work better and see things more clearly. As if he filtered all the useless stuff away and helped him focus on the right things. 

Matilda seems to have inherited that special ability, even if in a slightly different way. She absolutely quiets his mind and lets his thoughts come to a halt. Maybe it is the way she exists only in the present – no thinking about things that have been or that will be. Or, even worse, that would have been, could have been or _should_ have been. Maybe little thinking at all, and just _being_. If she is hungry, she is hunger, if she is tired, she is all tiredness. If she is happy, she is happiness with every cell of her body. She makes him calm down, shuts off his thoughts. He does quite need that right now. 

There, earlier in the bathroom, he felt surprisingly naked when John had walked in. At the same time, he was stunned by the sight of him. Even though they had been living together for months and years in the past, John is a quite private man. And, other than Sherlock himself, he doesn’t walk around the flat without clothes. So this was an… _unusual_ sight, to say the least. And it sticks to his mind far more than he would like to, popping up before his inner eye again and again. 


	7. Chapter 7

It is the beginning of May, when John and Matilda have lived at Baker Street for one and a half months. And John finally forces himself to write a short e-mail to Harry. 

  
  


_Hey Harry,_

_sorry you haven’t heard from me since Matilda was born. Life with a baby is rather stressful. Thank you for your card after her birth._

_We are doing fine, though. Matilda was three months last week, she’s putting on weight and she grows fast. She smiles a lot and wakes mostly twice a night. It has been worse in the beginning, so I’m glad to catch a few hours of sleep in a row._

_A few weeks ago, we left the house in the suburbs and moved back in with Sherlock at Baker Street. Just to make sure you know where to find me. Hope you’re doing well._

_John._

  
  


Harry replies within a day, just a short note asking if he would like to have coffee with her some time soon and that she would love to see Matilda. 

The last times they met didn’t go exactly well. John knew she didn’t like Mary, but to find out just how little she thought of her surprised even him. In addition, she had been going through a worse phase of drinking. In the aftermath of the wedding and Sherlock being shot, they didn’t have any contact except for a few lines via e-mail. He let her know things weren’t going exactly as he had anticipated. After Matilda’s birth, he had sent a short text and a photo of her and received a pink “Happy baby girl“ card in return. 

When they meet at a café in Marylebone the next week, John is a little tense. He has brought Matilda in her pram and he really hopes Harry is going to be sober. 

She is. She looks clean and bright and _good_. 

“Hey, Harry.“ 

“John. Come here, little brother. Let me hug you.“ 

They aren’t this close usually, but he opens his arms, allowing her to hug him. He breathes in the familiar scent of her dark blonde hair. 

“Congratulations again. You’ve got a lovely daughter, John,“ she says after having a look into the pram at her sleeping niece. 

“Thanks.“ 

“I’ve got something for her. Here, it’s just something small. I guess that’s what aunts do, right?“ 

“Thank you, Harry. That’s lovely of you. What is it?“ 

“Have a look. Matilda can’t unwrap it anyway, can she?“ 

“No, not yet.“ 

John carefully tears away the paper the gift is wrapped in and finds a stuffed little flower made of plush. 

“It makes all sorts of funny noises when you squeeze it. And the petals and leaves rustle. Babies love it, I was told.“ 

“Oh, alright. Thanks. I’m sure Matilda will love it. So you actually went into a toy shop to get this? You’ve always hated those places.“ 

“Yes, but only because Mum would never get me those Barbie dolls.“ 

“Childhood trauma.“ 

“Christ, yes. That’s why I took someone with me.“ 

“Oh?“ 

John braces himself for the worst. _Sounds like another one of her hopeless love affairs._

“Her name is Melinda. I’ve been seeing her since January. She’s different, John.“ 

Harry looks at him. The sadness, the restlessness and the defeat that have been lurking in her eyes ever since she left Clara are almost gone. 

“That sounds... good. I am happy to hear that.“ 

He isn’t, not very much. He has seen Harry getting lost in love a few times too often. 

“I know you’re really not, John. But I’d like you to meet her. That sounds like I only want to prove it’s all different this time, but it is.“ 

“Ok. I will.“ 

John feels obliged to comply. He promises himself he won’t show his disapproval as openly as Harry did when she met Mary. Matilda starts making noises and moves her hands. John takes her out of the pram. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?“ 

Matilda blinks at him a few times and yawns. 

“Look who’s here. That’s Harry. Your aunt.“ 

Harry smiles at Matilda in a gentler way than John has seen her smile in years. 

“You want to take her?“ he asks. Harry beams. 

“I’d love to.“ 

John hands Matilda over the table to Harry. When she takes Matilda, she looks even softer. The traces of the harsh past years seem to vanish from her face. John wonders if Harry has ever pictured herself with children. 

They spend another hour together, until Matilda gets crotchety and hungry. Harry holds her a lot, shows her the stuffed flower and all the little noises it makes. Matilda is fascinated and rewards Harry with a few bright, toothless smiles. 

“She’s so lovely, John. She looks like you. Such a lovely girl. I bet you’re a damn good dad.“ 

“Oh. Well, I’m trying. I wouldn’t manage this without Sherlock.“ 

He had planned not to mention Sherlock at all. Harry sees right through him sometimes and he is quite sure he doesn’t want to hear her sharp comments on any of this. But, „I believe that,“ is all she replies and it sounds honest. 

They agree on seeing each other soon, so John will get to know Melinda. With another hug, Harry says goodbye. And John has to admit this was the nicest time they have had together in years. 


	8. Chapter 8

Being brought up by a doctor and a detective, every new thing Matilda learns is being watched closely and adored beyond measure. John was over the moon when she started smiling at him or reacting to him when he calls her. Now, being able to grasp things starts a new era of playing in the Holmes-Watson-household. Sherlock starts handing her all sorts of items, naming them and watching her chew them thoughtfully. 

“Oh, you’re busy exploring the kitchen drawers again?” John asks as he comes in. Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table. Matilda sits on his lap, busy playing with spoons, dough scrapers, egg whisks as well as screwdrivers, wrenches and John’s old stethoscope. 

“Yes. It’s amazing.” 

“I can see that. Sherlock… you did clean those wrenches before, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, and I took the set of scalpels out of the drawer as well.” 

“Ah. Glad to hear that.” 

Sherlock loves watching Matilda explore things. Her thirst for knowledge, her drive to find out about things equals his own. He can understand both her delight at understanding something new as well as her frustration when things don’t work out. Like a particularly stubborn ball that doesn’t allow itself to be grabbed properly. Or a wooden spoon that is simply too big to be put in her mouth completely. 

“Try this weird little thing, bumble, that might fit.” 

“It’s a sealing ring, Sherlock.” 

“A sealing… what?” 

“A sealing ring for that small Italian espresso maker. Don’t tell me you’ve deleted it.” 

“Never needed one.” 

“You use it to make espresso every once in a while on Sundays.” 

“I don’t make espresso.” 

“Well, forget about it.” 

Meanwhile, Matilda chews the sealing ring with her toothless gums and makes a satisfied grunt. 

“There you go. Now isn’t that nice.” 

She smiles at Sherlock in utter delight. Then there is a knock on the door and Lestrade enters the kitchen. 

“Hey, Sherlock, John. Ah, Matilda!” 

Greg smiles at her and strokes her head. 

“Hey, Greg, how are you?” John asks. 

“Yeah. Fine. Busy, though. Actually, I might need your help…” 

John straightens. 

“There was a murder last week in Peckham. At first it all seemed to be quite clear, we caught a suspect the same night, he made a confession and stuff. And now there are two more dead people, killed in the same manner. We’re… a bit lost.” 

“Where are they?” Sherlock is immediately turning back into his usual analyzing, rational self. 

“One’s still at the crime scene, Consort Road in Peckham. A neighbour found him this morning. The other one is at St Bart’s, Molly’s doing the post-mortem. Was found two days ago, just two streets away from the first victim.” 

John thinks for a second. 

“Right, I guess I’ll stay here with Matilda.” 

“Yeah. Sherlock, how about you?” 

“Coming.” 

John takes Matilda from Sherlock’s lap. 

“I’ll be downstairs, right?” Lestrade says as he heads towards the door. 

_No, I won’t say anything, I won’t sound like a worried wife,_ John tells himself when Sherlock leaves the kitchen. The room suddenly feels empty. 

When Sherlock is almost on his way downstairs, he comes back and peeks into the kitchen again. 

“I’ll be careful, John.” 

\--- 

Sherlock is back at two in the morning. The case was thrilling, but simple enough to solve in the end. He missed John at the crime scene. A lot, actually. 

_Maybe he’ll join me_ _again_ _when Matilda is a bit older. For God’s sake, I hope he will._ _It isn’t the same without John._

He sighs. 

_Matilda._ He can’t help but smile. He has so many ideas what to show her. _Maybe no crime scenes, for a start. But we could do some simple chemical experiments in the kitchen, something with… baking soda. Something she could participate in._

Sherlock stops at the top stair to their flat and listens. Everything is silent. He lets the Belstaff glide from his shoulders and toes off his shoes. He climbs up the stairs to John’s and Matilda’s bedroom without making a noise. He opens the door and peers inside. They are both asleep. He can’t see Matilda in her crib, but he hears her breathing. John is lying on his right side (avoiding putting pressure on his bad shoulder), facing the door. His face is relaxed and peaceful. 

Sherlock likes watching John with Matilda. Their gentle intimacy, the calmness and safety John radiates. The lack of sleep is still wearing John down quite often. But apart from that he is patient and strong and strangely omniscient in Sherlock’s eyes. He is impressed by how he isn’t intimidated by the usual baby problems. John fascinates Sherlock even more than he did before. 

Even though they have been living at Baker Street for two months now, Sherlock still can’t quite believe John is actually here. He tries hard to prove that he is worth his trust, but he can’t tell if it is enough. Sometimes John is more relaxed and _closer_ than ever. But sometimes there is something cautious and distant about him. If it wasn’t for that occasional distance, he might actually start hoping for something _more_ between them. He wants to hope for that. He wants something more. _It is much harder to protect yourself when you aren’t alone anymore._ He guesses he is about to fail sometime soon. 


	9. Chapter 9

One day, they get a parcel. Parcels usually are for Sherlock, specimen of some kind or other case-related things. Sometimes John orders something for Matilda on the internet. But this one is from Sherlock’s parents, addressed to all three of them. 

“Sherlock, would you care to open this?“ 

Sherlock is sitting at his desk, researching something for a case on his laptop. 

“What is it?“ he asks distractedly, not even looking at it. 

“A parcel. From your parents.“ 

“Oh dear.“ 

Sherlock doesn’t show any signs of complying to John’s request. So John places Matilda on the floor, puts the parcel next to her and opens it himself. Inside he finds a short note from Sherlock’s mother. 

  
  


_John, Sherlock,_

_Mycroft told us that John and Matilda have moved back in. We are happy to hear that and wish you all the best. Here is a little something for Matilda._

_Sherlock, do call us sometime soon._

_Love, Margaret / Mum_

  
  


“It’s a present... for Matilda.“ 

He takes the gift, wrapped in colourful paper, out of the parcel. 

“Look, Matilda, this is for you.“ 

She eyes it with mild interest. 

“Let’s have a look inside, shall we?“ 

He tears away the paper and finds a stuffed... bee doll. 

“Look, Sherlock. It’s quite lovely, actually.“ 

“Oh.“ 

“Oh?“ 

“I used to have a similar one.“ 

“You did?“ 

“Yep. Loved it.“ 

Sherlock Holmes as a toddler with a stuffed bee half his own body size. John would kill for a photograph. He grins. 

“Did it have a name?“ 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“Bee. _Obviously_.“ 

John grins even more and hands Bee to Matilda. 

“Here, little one, this is Bee. It’s yours. Your pa used to have one when he was your age.“ 

_Pa._ Sherlock still isn’t used to this. He doesn’t quite remember who started it – Mrs Hudson? Sounds like a thing Mrs Hudson would do – but somehow it stuck. And John even muttered under his breath that it was easier for Matilda to say than ‘Sherlock’. So. Pa it has been ever since. Sherlock quite _likes_ it. 

Matilda has a close look at Bee and reaches her hands out for it after a while. Then she manages to get one of Bee’s soft antennae into her mouth and coos in delight. 

“My mother made mine, back then. She very much disagreed with the stuffed toys she found in the shops.“ 

Sherlock kneels down next to Matilda and John. He can feel the warmth of John’s body next to his. 

“Show me, firefly. Just for a second. You’ll get it back. – Ah. She made this one, too. You can tell by the cloth and the sewing. None of that cheap far-east polyester stuff.“ 

He hands Bee back to Matilda and pats her belly, then he is at his laptop again, trying hard to focus on his case. 

“Did you hear that, Matilda? Your“ – John considers the word carefully, but he can’t find anything more suitable – “grandma made it for you.“ 

He goes on playing with Matilda and her new toy for a while. He doesn’t see that Sherlock has stopped staring at his screen, with an expression of both disbelief and happiness on his face. 


	10. Chapter 10

Ever since John and Matilda have moved back in with Sherlock, Mycroft comes to see them every once in a while. Sherlock still is acerbic towards him, even though his comments have lost most of their bite. He doesn’t scratch his violin anymore, either. The frightened look on Matilda’s face the first – and only – time he did that stopped it for good. 

John is a little milder as well. Mycroft has interfered with his life so often by now – in both good and bad ways. He has come to accept that he can’t have one Holmes brother without the other one. 

Matilda is pleasantly nonbiased. But John can’t help noticing that Mycroft seems to be a little intimidated by her. And he is quite proud of his daughter. There are rather few people who have accomplished that. So Mycroft doesn’t touch her if it isn’t necessary, doesn’t stroke her hair or fumble around with her otherwise. Matilda approaches him with mild curiosity, staring at his funny umbrella, his shiny shoes and the buttons on his vest. 

Mycroft’s presence is a silent offer of information about Mary. He doesn’t impose it on either John or Sherlock. But it is clear that he would answer any questions they might have. And give them an update on the recent developments if needed. So far, John doesn’t want to know. He understands that if something happened he should know about, something that required to be acted upon, he would be told without having to ask for it. Sherlock stays out of John’s and Mycroft’s wordless agreements. He knows that John has to set the pace for all the things concerning Mary. 

And so the three of them end up together for afternoon tea every few weeks, having their little well-worn crosstalks along with tea and Mrs Hudson’s biscuits. 

Mycroft usually doesn’t bring any presents for Matilda, but this time he does. While Sherlock is upstairs to pick up Matilda after her afternoon nap, Mycroft nestles a small package out of the pocket of his coat. 

“Well, I thought Matilda might find this useful.“ 

He hands the package to John. 

“Oh, thanks, Mycroft. Can I have a look at it? I guess Matilda can’t unwrap it herself.“ 

“Please do.“ 

It a musical box for children. An old one, used, but in good condition. John pulls at the string and some long-forgotten children’s song plays. 

“That’s lovely, thank you, Mycroft. Was it yours...?“ 

“Actually, it was. But when I was older, Sherlock had it. I used to make it play for him when he couldn’t sleep.“ 

John looks at the musical box and smiles. _Is this sentiment? Mycroft actually showing sentiment?_

“Thanks a lot.“ 

Sherlock and Matilda just come downstairs, Matilda is still looking very sleepy and rubbing her eyes. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?“ John kisses her on her head while she cuddles against Sherlock’s chest. 

“Oh Mycroft, have you started searching our parents’ attic for long lost childhood memories?“ Sherlock asks with a hint of mockery in his voice. 

“Absolutely, Sherlock. It was most entertaining.“ 

“I guess they have kept it all, haven’t they?“ 

“Yes, brother dear. From your first romper to your dental braces.“ 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“I will have a word with them. At least about giving those things to _you_ , Mycroft.“ 

“Oh, you really should. But be aware that this might set off one of Mummy’s monologues on how little you come and see them and that you really should have a look at the books in your old bedroom.“ 

Sherlock sighs, defeated. After a second, a hint of a mischievous smile shows on his face and he takes a step to the sofa. 

“Come, Mycroft, be useful, hold Matilda for a second while I have a look at that musical box.“ 

In the end, John has to keep Sherlock from dismantling the musical box (“Oh, don’t be _boring_ , John, I will put it back together“) and Mycroft from the early stages of being just a bit overstrained from handling a curious four months-old. He takes both Matilda and the musical box and leaves Sherlock and Mycroft to each other. He prepares some baby food for Matilda while she lies on the floor playing with her new toy – well, grabbing it. 

“I should be going, Sherlock. It was a pleasure, as always.“ 

“Don’t be daft, Mycroft.“ 

“Goodbye, Matilda. John.“ 

“Mycroft. Thank you again for the present.“ 


	11. Chapter 11

As time passes, John finds it harder and harder to understand how he ever could have lived in that house in the suburbs. Or how he could have considered living there with Matilda. Life in 221b is easier than he would have thought. It is _his_ life again. And yet, it is completely different from the life he – _they_ – lived before. It is still a lot about finding out how things work with a baby. And how things work out between two grown men finding themselves responsible for a baby. But Sherlock and he fit together like pieces of a puzzle. And with Matilda it is just... good. A tiny puzzle piece, making a huge difference and none at all at the same time. 

Sherlock absolutely _is_ Matilda’s pa. He fits into that role surprisingly well. He has changed quite a bit. He sticks to smaller cases with little potential of danger (John assumes there must have been some kind of talk with Greg in the past). He keeps the flat free from hazardous materials and if Matilda ever gets on his nerves, he doesn’t show it. He is still sulking from time to time. A lot less, though. And when he does, Matilda is miraculously excluded. His mood never turns against her. 

John is happy, this is more than he would have ever dared to ask. Additionally there’s the fact that some part inside John really wouldn’t mind if things between him and Sherlock developed _in that direction_. He finds himself staring at Sherlock a great deal more than he ever has. Especially since that bathroom incident has fuelled his imagination. He is back to thinking about sex, after all. And making feeble attempts at shifting into Sherlock’s proximity just a tiny bit more. Standing behind him while he sits at the table, pretending to look at his laptop while he actually just tries to be close enough to smell him. His hair, his skin. A very faint note of sweat after a long day. 

But things aren’t exactly simple. After all, this is Sherlock. John knows that he isn’t as cold and as detached as he likes other people to think – the way he cares for Matilda can’t be described as anything but loving. Still, John is afraid he might have gotten this wrong. 

And, this is _him_. John who has declared he isn’t gay a hundred times over. Does he have the courage for... _this_ , whatever it is going to be? Something makes him hold back, keeps him from both making a move or trying to talk about it. 

_How would I talk about this anyway? ‘Hey Sherlock, you’re sure you want this life with me and a baby? For a long time? For as long as it takes? And, by the way, I’m still not completely sure if I can handle a gay relationship. And I am bloody afraid of hurting you, of being hurt myself and messing things up like hell’?_


	12. Chapter 12

One night a few weeks later, Matilda won’t stop crying once again. She has had a couple of really bad nights already and John is badly exhausted. She is five months by now and starts turning – that has increased her level of mobility considerably. John and Sherlock spend a few hours clearing the flat from all kind of things that aren’t suitable for toddlers. Piles of magazines she could toss over as well as the poker at the fireplace and a hundred other things. Now, with the sleepless past nights and the rearranging of the flat, even Sherlock seems to have dark rings under his eyes and yawns several times throughout the day. When John went shopping that morning, he was so dizzy he completely forgot about buying new milk powder. Even though he knew they were running out of it. So when Matilda cries that night, he has to leave again at eleven to go _bloody_ somewhere to get her brand of milk powder. Sherlock stays at home. He is carrying her, pacing up and down the living room, rocking her gently. Or looking out of the window, watching the lights passing by on dark Baker Street as she cries. 

When John comes back almost an hour later, he is surprised to find the flat silent. Matilda is lying in her bed, sleeping in an almost mockingly peaceful manner. And Sherlock lies in John’s bed, fully dressed, asleep and curled on his side, facing Matilda. John sighs and goes downstairs to the bathroom, getting changed and washing his face. He doesn’t wake Sherlock, just lies down next him. He has to wait quite a long time until his wildly beating heart calms down and he dozes off. 

For a few hours, John sleeps like a log. The restless nights are taking their toll on him. But since his body is so used to waking at least once a night, he opens his eyes around half past four. He is surprised to see Sherlock is still there. Sometime during the night, he must have gotten up and changed into a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. The fact that he did come back to John’s bed instead of sleeping in his own or staying awake, well, it... God, it makes him _happy_ , excited even. It is a gesture of care, of trust… showing that Sherlock wants to be here with him, too. In whatever way. 

He goes downstairs, uses the loo and drinks something. He even feels the need to brush his teeth now that there is someone else in his bed. 

Someone. _Sherlock_. 

When he comes back to his bedroom, Matilda is lying in her bed, eyes open and smiling at him. 

“You’ll want your bottle, don’t you, sweetheart? Come here, we’ll get it,“ he whispers. He takes her out of bed to make sure she doesn’t cry when he leaves the room. He doesn’t want Sherlock to wake up and _leave_. In the kitchen, Matilda watches him pouring hot water in her bottle, adding milk powder and stirring it. 

“Da!“ she calls happily. 

“Yes, Matilda, that’s your milk. Shhh now, your pa’s asleep. And we’ll let him sleep, ok?“ 

Upstairs, Matilda drinks her bottle and falls asleep again. John silently glides back into bed. 

Sherlock is lying on his side, facing him. The grey light of early dawn lights the room enough to see him. John reaches out his hand and brushes his thumb over his cheekbone, suddenly overwhelmed by his need to touch him. How could he even _think_ he had better stayed away from him? 

Sherlock’s skin is soft and warm. And leaves John unable to stop. He touches his eyebrow, feels the soft stubble on his chin and follows the elegant curve of his ear with his fingers. He strokes his hairline and lets his hand get lost in Sherlock’s curls. 

_It is so good having him here..._ They have been drawn closer to each other over the past months, both physically and emotionally. Getting more at ease with each other, almost the way they were when John first lived at Baker Street. Gradually closing the distance that had grown between them over the fall and the marriage. In hindsight, from the perspective of this morning, absolutely everything that has happened in the last months has led them _here_. 

Sherlock opens his eyes. John knows he should feel caught or awkward now, but he doesn’t. 

“Stay with me, Sherlock,“ John hears himself whisper. Sherlock looks at him, his eyes clear and awake. 

“I will,“ Sherlock says in a low voice. John’s hand slides down his neck to his chest. Sherlock’s heart beats under the thin cloth of his worn-out t-shirt. He touches John’s cheek and John closes his eyes, exhaling a shivering breath. Sherlock moves closer to him and John feels his warm, soft lips touch his own. First, it is just a chaste, hesitant press. But then John very slightly moves his lips and Sherlock takes up the motion. 

And then Sherlock’s tongue touches his, and – _God_ – this is unlike any other kiss. Faintly reminding him of something he felt decades ago, but intensified a million times. They shift closer to each other. With a feeling of _finally_ John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. He touches his shoulder blades, the strong muscles on his back. This is Sherlock. And he is fucking amazed by it. Sherlock has taken John’s face in his hands, then he cups the back of his head, tousling his hair. John momentarily forgets how to breathe. Sherlock kisses him and explores him gently. _A tip to my lips just reminds me to breathe_. John moans. And in this moan are all the weeks and months and _years_ that he actually wanted this. 

He realizes quickly. This is nothing new, nothing that developed over the last few months. He just didn’t dare to see it. All the looks, the touches, his fascination with Sherlock and his jealousy – it was all connected to _this_. Holding Sherlock in his arms and letting him kiss him. He has been wanting Sherlock for ages. _Oh Christ._ __

He kisses back and now it’s Sherlock who lets out a small moan, half in astonishment, half in arousal. John feels his chest against his, Sherlock’s legs intertwined with his own. He can definitely feel Sherlock’s cock against his upper thigh. With a flush of embarrassment and excitement he realizes his own cock is pressed against Sherlock’s pelvis. 

They kiss, they get to know each other this way. Who would have thought Sherlock was such a passionate and, well, damn good kisser? They adjust to each other, let their bodies align, learn how they feel against each other. 

Matilda is sleeping next to them in her own bed, so they don’t make a lot of noise. They kiss silently except for a few pants and moans, their whispered names and the rustling of the bed sheets. 

Sherlock can’t believe John is reciprocating so intensely. _John, tasting, smelling and feeling incredible._ He is perfectly happy – no, much more than happy – to be kissed like this by John, he could go on for aeons. John’s ragged breath brushes over his face. John’s fingers run along his back, down his spine. And travel up again at his sides, right there where his skin is most delicate underneath his t-shirt. They dig into his pectorals, allowing a little space between him and John. Just to be pulled close again, with a hint of a thrust of his cock. 

_Oh God. John. Oh God. Don’t go any further, I can’t take it, it’s too much, I might not survive it. And don’t_ ever _stop, not feeling your lips on mine or your hands on my body – it would draw all air out of my lungs and leave me to drown in this myriad of sensations. Do take me apart._

When the room is lit by the rising morning sun after a long while, Matilda yawns, stretches out her small arms and starts blabbering to herself. John and Sherlock emerge from their kisses. Sherlock opens his eyes. They seem to be brighter than ever, contrasting his heated cheeks. John briefly wonders if he can see something… unguarded in there. It’s too much for John to take right now. He smiles and looks away, hushing another kiss on Sherlock’s lower lip. 

Sherlock, lying closer to Matilda’s bed, sits up and takes her out of her bed. 

“Hey there, Matilda. Good morning,” he says in a low, raw voice, not having spoken since their whispered words earlier this morning. She smiles at him as if she was happy to _finally_ have him around when she wakes. 

“Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it?” he replies. He leans against the headboard and holds her against his chest. She reaches out to touch his nose and giggles. 

“No, stop that. Stop it.” 

When she doesn’t, he kisses her neck, tickling her until she howls with laughter. 

“Now, little bumble. John, I think she needs a new nappy.” 

“Come here, Matilda. Let’s get you changed and dressed. Breakfast then, Sherlock?” 

“Yes. Please. I’m hungry.” 

John smiles at him, still not sure if he can believe what has just happened. He feels so close to Sherlock, he can’t stop looking at him, taking in the way looks. His cheeks are still a bit flushed, his lips are redder than usual _(Oh God, it looks breathtaking)_ , his t-shirt shifted towards his right side. And he has never seen his hair like this, so beautifully chaotic. 

While John puts on the kettle, prepares their tea and lays the table, Sherlock sits at the table with Matilda on his lap. She is rearranging Sherlock’s plate and the tea spoons within her reach, throws a spoon on the floor and laughs. Sherlock gets it back again and, immediately, she grabs it and drops it on the floor again. This whole new game goes on unattended by John. His stomach is busy making somersaults in excitement and his mind is too occupied by what has just happened. 

_Christ, we’ve kissed. I’ve kissed Sherlock. I know what he tastes like, what he feels like. I know what kind of sounds he makes during kissing. When he is aroused. We’ve kissed._


	13. Chapter 13

John, 1991 

John liked playing rugby. And he was good at it. Certainly the best of his team and among the teams around. Playing rugby offered an opportunity to get away from home. And to forget about the constant quarrels between his sister Harry and his parents. He tried to stay out of it, he didn’t argue, he didn’t talk much at all. He didn’t say a lot of things that would have been worth saying. Such as telling his father to stop drinking. John’s father must have had a weakness for drinking forever. But in the past few years, after he had lost his joband had had trouble finding a new one for a while, it had gotten worse. Not to mention his temper. He had gotten louder and it was taking less and less to make him yell. 

Such as telling Harry to stop provoking their father until he yelled. Harry was constantly hungry for a fight. She didn’t miss any opportunity to show them all how fed up she was with home, them, everything. A few weeks ago, she told John she had fallen in love with a girl. They had made out on a party, but, as the girl told Harry afterwards, she wasn’t in love with her. Harry was lovesick, she went out a lot more, she came home drunk a lot more on Friday nights. It was just a question of time when things would turn even worse. 

Such as telling his mum to pull herself together, to stop acting as if she were just a victim of this whole sodding situation. To keep her head up, to _do_ something about it instead of turning to the neighbours, red-eyed and sobbing. 

\--- 

So rugby it was. John went to training twice, sometimes even three times a week. There were matches on the weekends. He made sure that in case they _didn’t_ win (which rarely happened), the other team would remember whom they played against. He knew all of the teams from the rugby clubs around. And most of the players. Their strengths and their weaknesses. He didn’t care much about most of them. Some weren’t fun to play against, others were, because they were good, quick, challenging. 

Occasionally they played against Oakham. They were rather good and John had to fight hard to get the chance to score. His counterpart was a player called Rob, an inch taller than he was, with a wild smile and green eyes. John liked playing against him, he was damn good. They didn’t know each other apart from the rugby matches, John had no idea which school he attended or where he lived exactly. And there was something else. When they played, fought, sometimes John would catch Rob’s glimpse and hold his gaze. Rob looked at him fiercely, determined, challenging him. John. Not the player from the other team playing on Rob’s position, but _John_. John would stare back. And attack. There was something about Rob’s touches. When John played against other players, he never gave much thought whose body it was who bumped into him, lay across him, held him down. With Rob, he always knew it was him. He was more aware of him. He stuck out. 

One day, after a match against Oakham, John was called to his trainer. He wanted to discuss a few things about the match right away. The others were in the changing room, having a shower and discussing the match themselves. Probably making jokes about the other team. Talking to his trainer took a while. When John finally went to the changing room, he saw the last of his team carry their bags and wave good-bye as they passed through the heavy glass door and left the gym. 

Turning around a corner to the changing room, John bumped into Rob. John looked at him in confusion. _What is he doing here?_ Rob was close to him, closer than one usually would be. He could smell the other boy, see the freckles on his cheeks, his slightly chapped lips, some dirt on his forehead and his green eyes. John was just about the step back and murmur something in apology, when Rob suddenly bent down and pressed a kiss on his lips. 

John’s heart skipped a beat. Without thinking about it, he kissed back. He had kissed before – he had kissed girls. Rob went on kissing him, tongue and everything. 

Rob stopped. Now he was taking a step back, murmuring, “Gotta run, I’m late, you know.“ 

Rob left, taking long steps towards his team’s changing room and John replied something like “Sure, see you“. Or maybe he didn’t. He wasn’t sure how he made it into the changing room or how he got out of his dirty rugby clothes. He took a quick shower, ignoring how hard he was (the last thing he wanted right now was being caught wanking in this shower, _for fuck’s sake_ ). 

So. He had kissed a boy. Had been kissed by a boy. He wasn’t exactly shy, he had had a girlfriend before. He had touched her and she had touched him and, God, it had been amazing and he definitely wanted more of that. _More touching, more breasts, more sex. Soon. Please._

He had never given it much thought – but just as he liked a girl’s breasts, the shape of her body, the smile she would give him, he had always liked the shape of broad shoulder blades under a t-shirt or the way a boy’s ass looked in a pair of jeans. He never really tried for the smiles and the gazes and the touches. He was aware that this might label him as _gay_ , something not exactly friendly among teenage blokes. And now, that he kissed a boy, he realized he wanted more of that, too. More kissing, more touching. Sex? _Oh, God knows. No. Yes! Maybe. Maybe some day._

John started to look forward to the next match against Oakham. When the match came, he played well, he managed to focus on the game, at least as he wasn’t playing against Rob. He was – if that was possible – even more aware of Rob’s physicality. He enjoyed feeling him, his strength, his body. And fucking well defeating him on the rugby field. When they won, John grinned at him triumphantly and found Rob smiling back. Later, in the changing room, he took his time, drew changing and showering out until all of his teammates had left. He went outside on the hallway. And he found Rob waiting there, his hair still damp from the shower. John took him inside the changing room. And he suddenly realized he had no idea how to proceed from here on. What they actually should do. 

Well, Rob was very clear about this. He kissed him, and John let out a small moan at the sensation of his tongue in his mouth. He inhaled his scent – so very different from a girl’s. He cautiously touched his chin (rougher and a slight stubble) and his shoulder blades, which felt amazing despite a layer of cloth. After an eternity of snogging, Rob broke the kiss, slightly out of breath. 

“I... I gotta get the train. See you next time, John?“ 

A little confused, John replied, „Ah, sure. That would be great.“ 

Rob smiled at him and left and John smiled on the whole way back home. 

It went like that a few more times. They met, spent as much time snogging after the match as Rob could spare without missing his last train home. They even started talking a bit. Rob was in his last year at school, he was going to university after the summer holidays and probably would stop playing in Oakham’s rugby team by then. John never dared to take this away from the changing room. He wanted it, whatever it was, he wanted Rob, but he was absolutely not sure if he was ready to have a boyfriend. 

_\---_

Then things between Harry and his parents escalated – Harry finally told them she was gay. No, she didn’t _tell_ them, she used it as a weapon to point out how different she was from them and how they understood _fucking_ nothing about her. John was furious. The thing was – he understood her. Perfectly. He had the same anger boiling inside him, the same feeling that he was different. This house was too small, his parents were too narrow-minded, the horizon stretched no further than to that shabby little company his dad worked for, to the next pub, to the gossiping neighbours, to the last streets of their small town, this metropolis of boredom. He hated this life and he wanted something different. Something more. Maybe it would be best never to have children himself. Just to spare someone else this whole misery of a life of boredom and a dysfunctional family. He was pretty sure he would never fit in this kind of life, in here. And this wasn’t only a question of being interested in blokes and birds. That was why he played rugby. That was why he pushed himself to be best at it, why he threw himself into hard work and discipline. That was what made the idea of joining the army appeal even to a seventeen-year-old, who had little clue what to do with his life in general. Other than leaving this place. 

What rugby was for him, parties and girls and alcohol were for Harry. She didn’t _do_ anything, she just wasted herself. John was furious with her because of that. When would she understand that all this made things so much more difficult? 

Harry had a girlfriend by the time she confronted her parents, some girl she had met at a party. John vaguely knew she was even more trouble than Harry. It really wasn’t the kind of friend parents would have wanted for their child, gay relationship or not. Their parents took it badly, and it was easy to blame Harry’s homosexuality for all the problems she had. For all the trouble she made. Their dad stopped talking to her completely, being rather a traditionalist and bereft of any strategy how to handle a daughter that didn’t fit in. Their mum tried to comfort Harry with sentences about how this all would pass if she just met the right man. Which made even John sick. Harry moved out a few weeks later, to London, to start a job which was definitely not what their parents had had in mind for her. She rarely called, only when she was sure their dad would be at work or at the pub. She never visited, but John met her a few times in London. He had been to London before, but with his parents. The Tower, London Zoo and the like. The London he explored with Harry was a different world, more dangerous, more liberal, slightly out of bounds. He was fascinated. That was where he wanted to be. 

Still, they didn’t get on well. He knew it might be a bit unfair, but he never could stop blaming her that his own life was getting a lot more difficult now. His father drank harder than ever and his mum drowned in depressive moods. And it became clear to him that a boyfriend absolutely was not what he could handle right now. 

He met Rob a few more times before the summer break, before Rob left for university. His rugby mates started teasing him about how he was always the last one to leave the changing room. 

“Do you have a date here, John? You know, we’re not in America, we don’t have any pretty cheerleaders to snog you after the match!“ 

_God, if you knew._

The last time they met, it wasn’t just snogging, it was a damn lot of touching. The difficulties in John’s life had diminished John’s enthusiasm about the thing he had with Rob. But, _oh God,_ this time was surely one to remember. There was a hand job. He actually touched a cock that wasn’t his own. He felt its hardness and he felt Rob moan under his touch. He made Rob come, panting at John’s neck and then kissing him frantically before he did the same thing to John. _Fuck, it was good, it had never felt that way before._ And it wouldn’t, not for a very long time, not before John finished school, went to university and finally signed up for the army. Not until meeting a certain commanding officer at an Afghan camp. Not until Sherlock Holmes offered to share a flat with him. And changed his life and slowly but relentlessly made him realize that _this_ was nothing to be afraid of. 

Things with Harry didn’t get any better. He wasn’t angry about her being gay, how could he. He was angry at her about how she did things – relationships, her life, her drinking. She was still a lot better at provoking and escaping than she was at handling things in a constructive, responsible way. Or at talking. She turned everything she started into a mess. And yet, they only had each other, their parents dropped more and more out of both their lives. And the fact that their parents would probably face his bisexuality just as helplessly as they had faced Harry’s being a lesbian, well, that didn’t help either. 

John knew he was bisexual, but he didn’t know what to make of it. Apparently, a relationship with a man meant one thing, most of all: Things would get more difficult. His parents weren’t the only people unable to deal with it. He noticed the hints of homophobia everywhere, at school, later among his friends at uni, then of course in the army. And since he met very, very few men that would have been worth all this trouble, he simply stuck to _not gay_ , girlfriends and occasional fantasies about sharp shoulder blades and what they would look like if he knelt behind that back they belonged to. 


	14. Chapter 14

_We’ve kissed._ John can’t stop this line of thought. He has to look at Sherlock over breakfast a few times, as if to reassure himself this really has happened. When he gets the marmalade and butter out of the fridge, he passes Sherlock. He would love to bow down, bury his nose in his curls and inhale his scent. But he doesn’t dare, it is all too new and there are too many things on his mind. 

When they have almost finished breakfast, Matilda lies on her blanket, playing with tea spoons, Bee and the flower she got from Harry, Sherlock looks at John. 

“Everything alright, John? I can hear you thinking.“ 

“Well. Yes. There’s just quite a lot on my mind.“ 

“Maybe we should talk about it for once.“ 

“Well. Yes. Maybe we should.“ 

Matilda is still happy playing with her toys and she might be for another ten minutes or so. _No escape route here._ John sighs. 

“Right. You know...“ John starts, clenching his fist. 

“You’ve kissed men before. And you weren’t sure about it,“ Sherlock interrupts him. John swallows. 

“Yes, that, pretty much. But also – I was. I mean, I wanted it. But – oh fuck, Sherlock, why don’t you tell me what you’ve deduced already and I tell you whether you’re right. I’m such crap at this.“ 

“If you want to, John. I think you have had your first encounter with a man – a boy, probably – during your adolescence. Maybe at the same time when Harry came out as lesbian.“ 

He pauses, looking at John, trying to read his face for hints of approval or denial. 

“Yes. I was seventeen. Rugby. And you’re right about Harry.“ 

“Your parents didn’t understand Harry and they didn’t support her. The conflict evolving from that made the situation at your home worse. Your father was an alcoholic by then and your mother had lost all her self-confidence. You wanted to escape that life, too, feeling rather confined in that small town and your parents’ unhappy house. But other than your sister you didn’t choose rebellion, but discipline and worked yourself out of there.“ 

“Yes.“ John rubs a hand over his face. „Damn right.“ After all those years, being read like this still feels exposing and amazing at the same time. 

“Still, life became increasingly difficult for you. You were supposed to fulfil your father’s hope of being a proper son, now that his daughter had proven to be a disaster, at least in his eyes. Your mother expected comfort and help from you. And your sister wanted you to take her side in her battle against your parents.“ 

“Never saw it that way, but, yes.“ 

“You decided that being gay – or openly bisexual, that is – was not an option for you. And, after all, you _were_ attracted to women as well. So you chose the easier way. Declaring same sex relationships to cause too much difficulty.“ 

“Yes.“ 

John had never felt like a coward so much. 

“You probably saw how gay men were harassed, made fun of or simply not treated like any other men. That strengthened your decision and kept you from reconsidering it throughout the next years.“ 

“Yep.“ 

_What a fucking coward I’ve been._

“Perfectly understandable reactions. Your conclusions were right.“ 

“Oh? Were they? I just rather had the feeling I’ve been a damn coward.“ 

“For a seventeen-year-old that had to rely on his parents for at least until he had finished school, yes, those were logical conclusions.“ 

John takes a sip from his tea. _Why is it so fucking unsettling to hear this._ Unsettling and lifting a ton of weight off his shoulders. 

“But maybe it is about time you gave that view some more thought. It’s been more than twenty years since that, John.“ 

Sherlock pauses, looking at John. And when John looks back at him, holding his gaze, he goes on, his voice suddenly shy, „What do you want, John?“ 

“I want – you. I think. God, what a mess. But there are... more things I keep thinking about, too.“ 

“You were hurt. Sholto.“ 

“Yes, that. And there are... other things.“ 

“I know.“ 

“I need some time.“ 

“I know, John.“ 

“Can we just take it... slowly?“ 

“Of course.“ 

And with that, with this talk and with Sherlock’s promise to wait for him as long as it takes him to figure things out, something inside John shifts. Just the way a shift of a few millimetres in a kaleidoscope creates a completely different picture. 

“How can you be so patient, Sherlock? You listened to my fucking excuse of _not gay_. You helped me getting married to a woman. Saw me going back to her after she shot you... How, Sherlock?“ 

“I’ve got no other option, John. I’ve just got... you.“ 

John nods and drinks the last sip from his tea, cold and strong, just to cover that lump in his throat. When he gets up to go to his room and get dressed, he places a kiss on Sherlock’s curls. 

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Which gives John some time to let that turmoil inside him get some rest. John goes out to get the groceries with Matilda. They debate if they should buy a washing machine of their own (maybe Mrs Hudson would like to use it, too?), because the question of who goes to the launderette and the permanent lack of clean clothes makes them quarrel way too much. Sherlock pays the British Library a visit to get some books for background research for a case he is working on. Matilda makes her first attempts at crawling while Sherlock is away and John is, once more, the proudest father in the world. 

At night, when Sherlock has taken her to bed (not without trying to make her crawl again a few times, but without success), John sits on the sofa reading, instead of in his chair. Sherlock takes one of the library’s books and lies down to read, his head leaning against John’s thigh. He briefly looks up at John, as if to ask, _That ok?_

John smiles back at him. _Yes. Very much._

It is, John likes having Sherlock so close. He is rather glad Sherlock doesn’t withdraw after their talk this morning. They watch some crap telly later on and when John feels tiredness creeping up his limbs, he clears his throat. 

“I think I’ll be off to bed now.“ 

“Sounds good. Might go as well.“ 

“Er, do you want to... well. I... I would like you to.“ 

“Yes. I would. Very much.“ 

So Sherlock goes up to John’s bedroom again when he has finished brushing his teeth. John is lying on his left side and Sherlock lies down on the other side, facing John, just like that morning. 

“Sherlock, would it be ok if you turned around?“ 

Sherlock looks a little startled, so John hurries to add, “I’d… well, you know. I’d like to spoon you. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but...“ 

He trails off. Sherlock blinks and turns around. John shuffles closer until he can wrap his arm around Sherlock’s warm chest. He leaves some space between Sherlock’s pyjama-clad buttocks and his groin _(taking things slowly)_. But he allows himself to touch Sherlock’s shoulder blades, outlined sharply against the cloth of his old sleeping shirt. Sherlock’s chest moves with his calm breathing and his exhales feel warm on John’s arms. John falls asleep with his forehead against Sherlock’s nape and his chest against his back. 

\--- 

When Matilda wakes up and wants her bottle, the sun is already rising. Before John can move, Sherlock gets up, takes her out of her bed and walks downstairs, talking to her in a low voice. He even manages to put her back to sleep afterwards and gets back into John’s bed. John is dozing, lying on his back. Sherlock wraps his arm around John’s chest, very much the way John did at night. 

John tries to get back to sleep, enjoying being held like this, but he can’t. It is too exciting, too great a joy. After a while, he touches Sherlock’s hands. Then Sherlock’s hands move, reciprocating John’s caresses and drawing circles on his chest, dangerously close to his nipples. John turns his head towards Sherlock and before he can open his eyes, Sherlock is kissing him. And it is exactly like the morning before. So amazing and so unbelievable, _Christ, he is kissing me._ Sherlock’s lips taste like toothpaste and John hesitates to kiss him properly. 

“Be right back,” John murmurs. 

_I should make up my mind about all of this,_ he thinks on his way down to the bathroom. _Maybe we should_ _talk again. Fuck, I_ have _already made up my mind. I just don’t dare to… really try it._

When he gets back, his teeth brushed, he looks at Sherlock and can’t help but wonder what he would look like without that faded out t-shirt. He is hungry for his touches and while they are kissing, his certainty about _all of this_ grows. 

Yet they take their time getting used to this. As much as John would love to strip Sherlock’s clothes down and touch him everywhere, he doesn’t want to mess this up. And Sherlock doesn’t push. But before they get anywhere near talking, both Molly and Lestrade call Sherlock. A corpse, a crime scene and a promise from Lestrade that there will be neither dark alleys nor murdering madmen. Sherlock hurries to get to St Bart’s while John and Matilda have breakfast. 

The door bell rings when John has just finished. A minute later, he hears a familiar tread of steps on the stairs. The sharp knock of an umbrella pointing every second step. 

“Ah, hello, Mycroft. Cuppa tea?” 

“Yes, that would be lovely, John. Thanks.” 

“Sherlock isn’t here. I’ve got no idea when he’ll be back, he’s at St Bart’s. Case.” 

When Mycroft doesn’t say anything, John understands. 

“I see. You want to talk to me then.” 


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock, 1998. 

Redbeard was dead. Sherlock’s mother called him at university to tell him. He had been 16 years old, almost blind and now his hind legs failed to work. After a few days of watching him crawl helplessly through the house, Margaret Holmes took him to the vet. Later on she called Sherlock to ask him to spend the weekend at home to say goodbye to his dog. He would be taken down at the beginning of next week. 

Sherlock had come and had spent two full days with his old dog on his lap, carrying him in the garden from time to time so he could pee. Redbeard hardly ate and neither did Sherlock. He even let Redbeard sleep in his bed, which he hadn’t been allowed to do since he got his dog when he was five. Mrs Holmes sent him Redbeard’s red leash as soon as he was taken down, just as she had promised him. 

When Sherlock was five, Mycroft was twelve. Mycroft started going to boarding school that year. And Sherlock was alone. Deeply alone for the first time in his life and he didn’t know what to do all day now that Mycroft was gone. He missed him, playing with him and being shown things by him, learning about things. In Sherlock’s eyes, Mycroft knew _everything_. It never got boring with him. He even missed his annoyed “Leave me alone, Sherlock, just for five minutes!“ Playing with other children hadn’t exactly been a success for the Holmes’ brothers, so there was no one Sherlock could turn to now. 

After receiving three letters full of unspoken unhappiness in Sherlock’s stiff, childlike handwriting within a month, Mycroft called his parents. They had been watching Sherlock falling silent and withdrawing. They finally decided to get that dog that Sherlock would christen Redbeard. Mrs Holmes felt like she had two children to look after, but Sherlock brightened up again. He let Redbeard sleep in his bed (which he was forced to stop after a few weeks when Mrs Holmes got more and more fed up with it). And wherever Sherlock went, there went Redbeard. When he started taking violin lessons, Redbeard was his audience for both his exercises and his impromptu concerts. Redbeard listened patiently to the first deductions Sherlock made, the little boy eagerly trying to follow Mycroft’s example. Mycroft was glad about all of this, although a little alarmed by how close the bond between Sherlock and his dog was. 

When Sherlock went to boarding school himself at age twelve, leaving Redbeard was a lot worse than leaving his parents. During the first weeks at school there was nothing to distract him from his emptiness and loneliness. Nothing that kept him from withdrawing. Eventually he realized that the teachers at this school weren’t as dull as his old ones. And that the library actually held an amazingly large variety of books. He started to study almost everything he got hold of – chemistry, physics, mathematics as well as philosophy, history and languages. He read books on medicine, psychology and criminology, on geology and astronomy until the morning sun would wake the other boys in the dormitory. He didn’t know yet he would delete parts of all this knowledge years later, making room in his mind palace for more important, more fascinating things. For the time being, it kept him alive. Boredom and loneliness made him work harder than any other student of his year. After five months, the teachers suggested that he skipped this year and went straight to the next one. This was fine, the lessons got more interesting. But now he wasn’t only the cleverest and most unusual boy in his year, but also the smallest. Quite a target for those who were looking for kids to bully. So he loved the summer and winter holidays, when he could spend a couple of weeks at home with Redbeard. 

Mycroft was at university by then. They still wrote letters sometimes and they saw each other during the holidays. But he had to admit that Sherlock had somehow slipped through his fingers. He had withdrawn from him as well. He probably still told him more than anyone else, but that wasn’t everything Sherlock would have had to say by far. Sometimes Mycroft thought that Sherlock actually trusted no one but Redbeard. The more Sherlock withdrew, the more Mycroft tried to get information about him elsewhere: He called teachers, parents and offices. He was a grown man after all and his intelligence and his manners gave him the air of someone holding much more responsibility than he actually did. He was in his mid-twenties, just finished university and got his first job at the government. But Sherlock found out, no matter how carefully Mycroft spied onto his life. He was furious, his mistrust grew and he withdrew even more. Which led Mycroft to the conclusion that more sophisticated spying was the only option he could take care of his brother. 

\--- 

It was Mycroft who found out a few years later that Sherlock had a _friend_ at university. Mycroft had no idea how far that friendship went. Sherlock was careful and at that point of time, Mycroft wasn’t ready to pry into Sherlock’s bedroom. But Sherlock was attached to someone. Someone other than Redbeard or him. Someone out of Mycroft’s control. Still, he cared about why his brother chose to have a companion and whom his brother chose to be this companion. Mycroft’s research proved that Victor Trevor was comparatively bearable – above average intelligence, ambitious and apparently truly fond of Sherlock. But he also was the spoilt child of rich parents, who loved wild parties and had way too much money and contact to people that might impose a bad influence on Sherlock. And concerning the question of why Sherlock – who preferred the company of Redbeard to anyone else’s – had suddenly decided to have a friend now, he could only guess. University offered plenty of opportunities to learn and to fight boredom, but Sherlock had no idea, no plan what to do with his life. He couldn’t decide or focus on anything. He was equally bored and scared by the perspective of everything resembling a daily routine, a regular life. Having Victor around certainly was, on the one hand, another pleasant distraction and, on the other one, fed his curiosity for the wilder, darker and more unknown aspects of life. Or so Mycroft thought. 

Sherlock’s mind was like a sponge, always thirsty for knowledge. And nothing ever occupied him very long. Mycroft understood what drugs might mean to Sherlock: Experiencing something new, and apparently enhancing his mind. Distraction. It wasn’t that Mycroft didn’t understand what Sherlock might find tempting about drugs. He did very well. Boredom had always, _always_ been shadowing Mycroft’s own life. But he was more focused than Sherlock was, he had found a purpose. As a child, he had considered it his task to look after his younger brother. And, thinking that Sherlock was the only one who actually was like him, he taught him all the things nobody else could. Deductions, reading people. The way the world worked according to the child Mycroft was. This had occupied a great part of Mycroft’s mind for years. And when he had left for boarding school, this responsibility had carved itself deep into his personality. He didn’t even consider anything else but being the best of his year, the best of the whole school. To be a role model in every possible way. He went through uni like that and he had no lesser ambitions than working for queen and country, for the government. His mental abilities had always tended to scare people as much as it fascinated them. He disliked most other people _(goldfish, really)_ and therefore tried to reduce social contacts to the absolutely necessary minimum. So he considered MI6 to be his best career option: Pulling the strings from behind, applying complex strategies, keeping up with a myriad of political, economic and social developments every day. Playing people like pawns. This plan focused his mind and kept boredom at bay. This was his way to deal with it. 

When Mycroft tried to talk about drugs to Sherlock once more, he quickly realized it was already too late. He knew that despite his dubious acquaintances, Victor himself despised drugs and this probably would keep Sherlock from trying it. But what if their friendship ended? 

In the end, it didn’t need Sherlock and Victor to stop being friends or whatever they were. In the end, it needed a phone call from Mrs Holmes, informing Sherlock that Redbeard’s health was getting worse. And that the vet had told her that it would be best to put an end to his suffering. And it needed this last weekend with his dying dog. When Mrs Holmes told Sherlock the next Monday night it was all over now and that Redbeard had been put down, she had no idea that straight after this phone call, Sherlock would call one of Victor’s so-called acquaintances and tell him he needed some. _Get me some._

Sherlock was careful, he knew Mycroft would keep an eye on him. When he thought it to be too dangerous to get cocaine himself, he asked the son of his hall’s janitor, a kid mostly hanging about uselessly, to get it for him. Or the son’s friend. He had his own minions, after a while. 

\--- 

A few weeks after Redbeard’s death, Mycroft had clear evidence that Sherlock’s life was getting out of control: He attended even less of his lectures, he grew thinner and thinner and he wasn’t seeing Victor anymore. When he didn’t get any information about Sherlock in ten days, he saw no other option than paying him a visit. But he went to Victor’s place first. 

“Oh, you’re Sherlock’s brother? You aren’t very much alike, are you?“ 

“Oh, much more than you would think. Now tell me. What has my brother been up to lately?“ 

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? Oh, anyway. I’ve been worried, too, so I can just as well tell you.“ 

Victor paused and kneaded his elegant hands. 

“I... I think it started after he came back from that weekend he spend at home. Something happened to his dog. He’s never been very open about himself, but after that, he was completely out of reach. Even for me. Maybe he started taking cocaine right then. When he has taken it, he’s beaming with energy and fascinating and even more brilliant than usual, but when he’s off it... like a different person. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t eat, doesn’t go to uni. I’m not sure if he ever sleeps. It’s really quite difficult. Then he... actually he shut me out completely. He said he didn’t want to see me anymore. He isn’t answering my calls, doesn’t open the door.“ 

Victor took a deep breath, obviously wondering if he should go on speaking or not. He looked out of the window for a minute and then decided to proceed. 

“I mean... you see... we’re close, very close, but it’s a little hard to define. I don’t know if he’d want a real relationship and his holding back left me uncertain as well. I just thought I’d enjoy it as long as it goes and maybe see where it takes us. But since he’s not really my boyfriend, I didn’t feel I’ve had the right to call your parents or so. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have done.“ 

“Thank you, Victor. You have been most helpful.“ 

“What are you going to do now?“ 

“I will go and see my brother, of course.“ 

\--- 

_Coming down. I’m coming down. The drugs are wearing off. The rush and the high and the sheer velocity of everything is fading... and leaving nothing but boredom. Emptiness. A void. Painful. Fuck. This is worse than usual. Oh fuck, this is horrible ---_

_Everything is so slow now. Heavy. Aching. Fuck, I need to sleep. I can’t sleep. Sleep is everything. ---_

_Who’s there?_

“Redbeard?“ 

_No, it’s just his leash. Just his leash. Oh fuck, Redbeard. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh fuck. God, Redbeard. ---_

_Victor, is that you? What are you doing here? He can’t hear me... Try again..._

“Victor?“ 

“Sherlock, shhh, it’s me. Mycroft.“ 

_Victor? No, not Victor... Mycroft. Mycroft. Here. Wait, why’s he here..._

“Why? Mycroft? Why?“ 

“Why what, Sherlock?“ 

“Why? Fuck...“ 

_Oh God, I feel like I have to throw up, fuck..._

“Oh, Sherlock, hold on – sit up. Yes, like that, you are doing well. – _Oh, dear God above_ – breathe now. Breathe. Here is some water. Drink. Slowly, Sherlock.“ 

_Fuck, that’s disgusting. Oh fuck. I need to sleep._

\--- 

“Sherlock. Can you hear me?“ 

_Where am I? Oh God, my head. My skin hurts. Everything. Everything hurts._

“Sherlock. Listen to me, Sherlock.“ 

_Need to sleep..._

\--- 

_My throat. Hurts. Dry. Fuck. Need to... drink._

“Water.“ 

“Sherlock? Did you say something?“ 

“Water. Please.“ 

“There you go. Slowly.“ 

_Ah. Better. More._

“Slowly, Sherlock. Don’t drink it all at once. You’ve got an IV to supply you with liquids.“ 

_IV? Where am I? Mycroft!_

“Mycroft...“ 

“You are in hospital. You have overdosed. Your stomach was evacuated.“ 

_Fuck. Oh fuck. God..._

“Sherlock, this wasn’t just cocaine, was it.“ 

_Stop it._

“Sherlock, we need to know. The doctors are running some tests on your blood, but we need to know what you have taken. Please tell me.“ 

_No. Stop it. Go away._

“Sherlock. Tell me.“ 

“No. Go. Away.“ 

“No, absolutely not. Sherlock. _Tell me_.“ 

Sherlock didn’t tell him. While Sherlock was sleeping, Mycroft arranged for rehab and treatments and counselling. The day after that and after a lot of persuasion from Mycroft, Sherlock finally promised to make a list from now on. During the days that followed, Mycroft tried to talk to Sherlock. He was sure he had a fairly good idea about what had driven him into drugs, but – still. 

“Sherlock. Talk to me.“ He paused and then went on, „Redbeard.“ 

“No. Shut up.“ 

“You miss him.“ 

“Shut. Up.“ 

“Sherlock. I am trying to help. I found you holding his leash. Please, tell me.“ 

“Fuck you, Mycroft. Go away.“ 

“You are not alone, Sherlock. I am here. I won’t leave you alone.“ 

“Alone is what protects me.“ 

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock was curled up in his hospital bed. He looked as defiant and hurt as he sometimes had when he had been a child. But there was a sharper, harder trait in his face now and Mycroft could see he had his very own ideas, his very own experiences with hurt and loneliness. He sighed. He tried talking to him again the next days, but eventually, he gave up. Before he left for his London office again, he came to see Sherlock once more. He looked at Sherlock turning his back on him as he had been doing ever since he woke up in hospital. And finally, when he really didn’t know what else to say, he decided to tell Sherlock his own inner truth about relationships, about loving and missing and emotions. 

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. Remember that, Sherlock.“ 


	16. Chapter 16

“Mycroft. Why do you tell me this?“ 

“Because I am of the opinion that you might not be aware of the outstanding position you have in my brother’s life.“ 

“Because you’ve given him a ton of crap advice twenty years ago and now you want me to fix it for you.“ 

“I want to make sure you understand him. What _this_ ” – the wave of Mycroft’s hand includes the flat, Matilda and, finally, John – “means to him. The mere fact that he is doing this.” 

“I do understand fucking well, Mycroft.“ 

John tries not to wonder how Mycroft knows about him and Sherlock or about his own unspoken worries. He looks at his tea cup and swallows. 

“I do, Mycroft, and I am doing my best not to fuck things up.” 

“I know.” 

Matilda is getting tired and makes a few annoyed noises. 

“I can see that your attention is needed here now, John. I’ll be going.” 

“Yeah. Right.“ 

“You remember what I said on the plane, in January?“ 

“Yes. I do take care of him.“ 

\--- 

Matilda needs to sleep and John has to do _bloody something_ to let all this sink in. Move. Walk. With Matilda in her pram. He is heading for Regent’s Park. It’s a bright day in June and he makes a mental note to get some sun blocker for Matilda the next time he is at Boot’s. When he is waiting for the traffic lights to turn green, he spots Mrs Hudson across the street. She is waving at him and waits for him on the side of the street. 

“Hey, Mrs H.“ 

“John! You’re going for a walk?“ 

“Yeah.“ 

“Regent’s Park? It’s so lovely there at this time of the year. Well, maybe I should join you. My doctor said just last week that it would be good for my hip if I walked more. All this sitting on the sofa... it really isn’t making things any better.“ 

John briefly considers how to stop her, he actually went out to have some time to think – but, well, this is Mrs Hudson, after all. 

They walk for half an hour or so. She wants to know how Matilda is doing and she is delighted to hear that she has started turning and tiny little bit of crawling. She tells him how her niece started crawling (“She was ten months by then, ten months! And she didn’t walk until she was 19 months. My sister was so worried she’d never start, I can tell you...“) and things like that. Matilda falls asleep after a while and when Mrs Hudson stops her small talk for a minute, he appreciates the silence. 

“How’s Sherlock doing? I have the feeling he isn’t taking a lot of cases at the moment.“ 

Before John can reply, she goes on, „But he isn’t as annoyed and bored as he usually is. Actually, domestic life seems to serve him rather well.“ 

“Yes, it looks like that. Never would have expected that either.“ 

“And he _adores_ the little one. Everyone can see that. Children change people, John, I’ve always known that.“ 

She smiles. 

“Well, yes. Apparently so.“ 

“You look well, too, John. Never quite pictured you as a father, but you seem to be happy. At least a lot better than you did when Mary was still around.“ 

“I _am_ a lot better now. It was... complicated, you know.“ 

“Yes, yes. I mean, when you’re finally back living with the person you are really supposed to be with, things get much easier, don’t they?“ 

John clears his throat. At this point of the conversation he used to exclaim _I’m not gay,_ but since he is obviously past this, he just doesn’t say anything. And of course, Mrs Hudson notices. With a small, proud smile, she adds, “I’ve always known you were meant for each other.“ 

John doesn’t know how to reply to that one, either, so he just squeezes her hand and they walk back to Baker Street. 

\--- 

John has just fed Matilda and is about to change her nappy, when his phone pings with an incoming text. Sherlock. 

_Need your help. St Bart’s. Now. -SH_

_The whole sodding hospital is full of doctors better than me. Ask one of them?_

_Correct, but none of them is you. -SH_

_I need you to have a look at a body. I need you to help me thinking. -SH_

And, finally, after a moment, _You can bring Matilda. Not going to be dangerous. -SH_

_So this is the point where we’re taking our daughter out on cases, then. I’ll be on my way in ten. She needs a fresh nappy first._

It is only when John has already sent the text that he realizes that he has written _our daughter._ Smiling and with a weird feeling of excitement in his stomach he hurries up. 

At St Bart’s, he finds Sherlock, Molly and Lestrade in Molly’s lab. Sherlock is bent over a slab, eyeing a body closely with his magnifying glass. Lestrade and Molly turn their heads as John enters. Molly hasn’t met Matilda yet as John hasn’t been on any cases and she is obviously delighted. 

“John, that’s your daughter? Oh, she’s lovely!“ 

“Yeah, and she’s grown, John!“ Lestrade adds with a bright smile, leaning in closer to pad Matilda’s head. 

“Yeah, she has. She’s started turning a few days ago.“ 

He wants to go to Sherlock, he actually is curious to have a look at that corpse. But he hesitates. Taking Matilda into a morgue is _a bit not good_ , having her have a look at a dead body is worse than that. Molly notices his hesitation. 

“John, would you like me to hold her?“ 

“That would actually be great, yeah. Here you go. Matilda, behave yourself, right, sweetheart? I’ll be just over here.“ 

He takes a pair of gloves from the box next to the slab. It is good to be on a case again. John didn’t know how much he missed it until he examines that body (female, early twenties and – as John has to admit – pretty, very athletic). He feels Sherlock’s gaze wander over him while he is doing his work. But he is too fascinated to be back on a case again to give it much more thought than a brief realization of joy, of _them_ and a bitof _This is how it’s supposed to be._

“She was a professional oar. Collapsed right after yesterday’s training. I thought it might have been an accident or something related to rowing. Sometimes athletes just collapse out of nowhere. But somehow things don’t fit. We have her trainer at NSY waiting for interrogation,” Lestrade explains. 

“She was an oar?“ John asks. 

“Yes.“ 

“I started checking her heart. It’s enlarged, something you see quite regularly among oarsmen. I hadn’t finished the post mortem when Sherlock got here, John,” Molly explains from the other side of the room while she plays with Matilda. 

“Hm.” Something about the victim’s startles John. _It’s the very… flesh that is unusual._ “You see, Sherlock, her muscle tissue should be firm yet flexible, even at this point of time after her death. But it’s... like a sponge. It’s soft, too soft. As if she had stopped training abruptly or as if her muscles had suddenly decreased enormously. But even then it wouldn’t decompose so quickly.“ 

“I talked to her trainer earlier. He said she hadn’t been in a good condition recently, she has had a bad cold and wasn’t back to her usual standard,“ Lestrade replies. „He said the cold might have affected her heart, that sometimes happens.“ 

“The trainer is an idiot. Wanting to cover up for vitamin treatments that aren’t even illegal,“ Sherlock points out, rolling his eyes. 

“Did her family notice anything unusual, Greg?” 

“No, John. We need to ask them again. Do you want to come?” 

It is Sherlock who nods. 

“John, if the muscle tissue in her heart looked the same – how would that affect her physical condition?“ 

“Difficult to say. But I have heard about similar conditions where a young healthy person suddenly collapsed and died due to failing muscle tissue in his heart. But it was a genetic disorder that time… Molly, did you have a closer look at her heart already?” 

“Not yet, John, I had just opened her thorax when Sherlock got here. Shall we have a look then?“ 

Molly carefully hands Matilda to Lestrade and gets another pair of gloves from the box. Ten minutes later, they have evidence that her cardiac muscle tissue is in the same bad state – and that this probably is neither related to an oarsman’s heart condition nor a cold that had infected the heart. John looks at Sherlock. 

“The trainer? Something more than vitamins?“ 

“Don’t think so, John. He _obviously_ wouldn’t give her anything that destroys her muscles.“ 

“Something different, then? This definitely doesn’t look normal.“ 

John peels off the gloves, Matilda has started weeping a little on Lestrade’s arm and he takes her back. 

“Shhhh, sweetheart. It’s alright. Let me think. I’ve seen this before.“ 

He gets Matilda’s toy flower from his bag and gives it to her. 

“I think I was at a conference once where there was a lecture on the side effects of certain drugs that badly destroyed the muscle tissue in some cases. Had something to do with the treatment of metabolic disorders, I think.” 

They check a few more things about the corpse and then Lestrade and Sherlock rush off to interrogate the family. Matilda is obviously fed up with their visit to St Bart’s and even Molly can’t cheer her up, so John decides to take a cab back to Baker Street. When he is just on his way, he gets another text from Sherlock summoning him to the NSY. 

Sherlock wants him have a look at some drugs they have found at the victim’s house. When they are finally done at Lestrade’s office and packing their things, John hears the familiar _click_ of a camera phone. 

“Hey, Greg? Taking pictures?” 

“Yep, mate. For all my bloody colleagues who still won’t believe that you’ve got a daughter and that you’re bringing her on cases. Come on, one more, and do smile this time.” 

On their ride back to Baker Street in the late afternoon, Sherlock explains. John has had the right idea: The victim’s sister was suffering from a metabolic disorder that impaired her life significantly. She was overly jealous of her beautiful, successful, athletic sister. To diminish her physical strength and her success at rowing, she started giving her sister her own drugs. She hadn’t considered that her sister would react to it that badly, though. 

“Really wasn’t that difficult to solve after you’ve found out about the cardiac muscle tissue.” 

“It was nice.” 

“It was nice that a girl was accidentally being murdered by her jealous sister?” 

John huffs a laugh. “No, not exactly, but it was nice being back on a case.” 

Sherlock smiles at him. When they close the black door of 221b behind them a few minutes later, John puts down the car seat with Matilda still sleeping in there and… well, it is a little bit as he had sometimes dreamt about before the fall and before everything, not even admitting it to himself. Sherlock turns towards him, slowly getting closer until John is leaning against the wall and Sherlock is kissing him. Neither kissing as frantically nor pushing him against that wall as hard as he fantasized, but _Christ_ , this is good. _God, more cases, please._ When they hear Mrs Hudson rustling in her flat, they break apart, breathing a little heavier and smiling. 

“Go upstairs?” 

As they climb the stairs, John remembers Mycroft’s visit. And as soon as they are in the flat, Sherlock has found out, as well. 

“My brother was here.” 

“Yes. This morning.” 

“What did he want?” 

“Talking. He… felt the need to make sure I understand what, well, _this_ means to you.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say a word and John can’t read his reaction. John clears his throat. 

“He told me about Redbeard. And the drugs. And Victor.” 

Sherlock sighs. It takes a long while until he finally says, “Overly dramatic, then.” 

“I’m sorry. He didn’t exactly ask me if…” John suddenly feels awkward, having been told something too personal about Sherlock without Sherlock’s consent. 

“It’s alright. Not your fault. After all, you do know Mycroft’s way of _taking care_.” He spits the last words out, but John senses rather resignation than fury behind that. 

“Yeah.” 

John makes tea, just to occupy himself doing something. After the excitement at St Bart’s and their kisses, things are back to being complicated now. All of a sudden, his heart is pounding against his chest and he has to say something or he will combust. 

“Sherlock…” 

Sherlock looks up from his chair. 

“I… just wanted to say. Er, I’d… I’d like to try this. Us. You know.“ 

“Very good.“ 

Sherlock’s lips curl into a shy-ish smile and a ton of weight silently drops off John’s shoulders. 

“Me, too.“ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not a doctor or otherwise medically trained. I heard about a heart condition like that, but to be honest, I’ve made all the details up, sorry.


	17. Chapter 17

That night, Sherlock sleeps in John’s bed again. There are kisses, silent ones, and hands and touches and at some point, shirts are being taken off in the darkness. But they both feel a bit awkward with Matilda sleeping next to them. At the same time, they don’t quite know how to take _this_ downstairs to Sherlock’s bedroom, so they just kiss and touch and… leave it at that. _Maybe it’s enough for the moment,_ John thinks as he kisses Sherlock’s neck while Sherlock is falling asleep. 

The next morning, they have breakfast and Sherlock even eats something. John is amazed. Sherlock is playing with Matilda while John takes a shower. When he stands in the spray of warm water and feels the echo of Sherlock’s kisses on his lips, he can’t help wondering what they would feel like on other parts of his body. And in the bright light of the day, he is very fed up with taking things slowly. 

“Sherlock?“ he calls three minutes later, dressed, his hair still wet from the shower. 

“Yes?“ 

“How about asking Mrs Hudson if she’d look after Matilda for an hour or two? She offered do to so a million times and maybe...“ He trails off. 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows questioningly. Then, he seems to understand and his eyes widen. 

“Here, take Matilda. Ask Mrs Hudson. I’ll be in the bathroom.“ 

John takes Matilda and Bee, now Matilda’s constant companion, downstairs. Mrs Hudson is indeed delighted about his request. 

“She’s just had some baby food for breakfast, she shouldn’t be hungry for a while. You can also take her out with her pram. And if she starts crying, just–“ 

“John, dear. Never mind. We will manage. Now go upstairs and don’t you worry, alright?“ 

John smiles and nods. And, being given a direct order (even a very gentle one), he turns in true military fashion and walks upstairs without another word. When he enters the flat, he hears Sherlock turning off the water tab in the shower. And then he feels awfully nervous. He leans against the back of the door and exhales loudly. 

_It’s just Sherlock. No reason to be nervous. The man who actually knows you best._

_Exactly. This is_ Sherlock _, bloody hell._

He is still leaning against the door between the hallway and the kitchen. Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel, wearing his pyjama bottoms and a fresh t-shirt is slumped over his shoulder. John looks at him, licking his lips. 

“I’ll just go and shave,“ Sherlock says, almost turning around. 

“Forget about the shave.“ 

John sounds more secure than he feels. And Sherlock takes a few steps towards him. John takes his hand. He doesn’t quite know where his courage comes from, but he pulls him closer. His own hands are warm and probably sweating. Sherlock’s are cool and, _oh God,_ shake a little. Sherlock looks at their hands and when he lifts his gaze to John’s eyes, John’s knees are about to buckle. He tilts his head slightly, an unmistakable invitation for a kiss. And Sherlock accepts it, leans down and kisses him. 

They take it slowly, at first. They savour the slightly familiar and yet still new sensation of their mouths, of their sounds, their smells and the way they feel under each other’s hands. John touches Sherlock’s neck, slides his fingertips over the sensitive skin between his shoulder and his ear. Sherlock shivers at this, breaks the kiss and exhales, eyes closed. 

John draws a line with his finger down from Sherlock’s jaw, along his neck and collarbone, across the pale pink scar on his sternum. He raises his hand just a few millimetres, not touching anymore, but enough to still feel the heat of Sherlock’s body. He touches his broad, angular shoulders, and lets his fingers slide down his pectoral to his nipple. He caresses it with his thumb and that… adds a different note to all of this. Their shy and careful contact turns into something more yearning, craving and definitely and tangibly sexual. 

And then, suddenly, all their backstory is taken away. It doesn’t matter anymore that John is John, who told the world how he is _not gay_ for years. Who is worrying about bringing up his daughter and figuring out what he wants. And that Sherlock is Sherlock, with his _Alone is what I have_ and _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._ With his contradictory and unrequited love for John and his inability to articulate it. None of this matters. It is just them, wanting each other. 

And like diving into a stream and being carried away by it, like riding a wave, like everything falling into place, they touch. Slightly nervous and awkward at first. And, when they realize their want is being reciprocated, more courageous and more playful. 

Sherlock takes John’s head into his hands while he kisses him. John loved that these mornings, he could tell. And _Sherlock_ loves it. John kisses back, his hands not gliding lightly over his skin anymore, but touching him, fierce with need. He moves one hand down Sherlock’s slim waist and onto his ass, pulling him a little closer. 

“Please, John," Sherlock moans into their kiss, “take me to bed.” 

“Yes. Oh God, I will.“ 

When they are standing next to the bed, John pulls his t-shirt over his head. First, Sherlock’s eyes travel over his chest, his scar, his belly, and then his hands do the same. John looks at Sherlock’s naked torso, equally fascinated. He reads his skin with his fingertips, every hair, every freckle, his navel and his nipples. Sherlock’s breathing accelerates and he kisses John again, passionately. The kisses aren’t as gentle and exploring as they were on those mornings in John’s bed, they are _hungry_. And with every further kiss, every swirl and touch of their tongues, their hunger grows. 

John opens his trousers, pushes them down and steps out. Sherlock can’t help but stare at John in his pants, so hard and wanting him. They move closer to the bed and then there is the mattress underneath them. Sherlock pulls John onto him, he wants to feel the weight of his body on him. It helps him realizing that this is indeed real, that he is here. With him. Doing this. 

John kisses a line from his mouth down his neck to his chest, all the way to Sherlock’s nipples. His kisses are not light and flickering anymore, but wet and sucking and teasing. He loves the taste of Sherlock’s skin and the way he shudders under his tongue’s swirls. Sherlock is slowly being taken apart by the sensation of John’s kisses and the way his hips – _Oh no, think it, say it, Sherlock –_ his _cock_ and his _balls_ brush against his. He starts moving his pelvis, desperate for the touch and the friction. John stops kissing his nipples and groans at this. He takes his left hand further down Sherlock’s belly, letting it rest halfway between his navel and the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. 

“May I?” he whispers. 

Sherlock can’t answer. He is too afraid of what his voice might sound like, needy, on the edge. He nods and gasps when John’s hand slips underneath the cloth. He didn’t bother putting on any pants earlier. John can feel his hair, still a bit damp from the shower. And then there is Sherlock’s cock. It is hot and hard. He needs to touch it like he would touch his own, even though it feels a bit unusual, with a different angle and everything. He rubs light circles over the wet head, then he strokes the shaft with his whole hand and lets his fingertips graze his balls. John loves it. And Sherlock is panting hard. He lifts his hips under John to get rid of his pyjama bottoms and then he is naked. 

_Beautifully, gloriously naked. A fucking picture of man with his rock-hard cock in my hand,_ John thinks. 

“God, don’t stop, John,“ Sherlock groans. 

“I won’t.“ 

He bows down, kissing Sherlock. And at the same time he is aligning the movements of his mouth and his fingers. Every move of his tongue and lips is mirrored by his fingers on Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock shivers and moans. John kisses his open mouth, playing with his tongue, gently sucking and biting his lower lip. Sherlock doesn’t know what to focus on, _it’s so much, God, John._

As if to make sure that this is none of the hidden, yet frequently visited chambers of his mind palace, he pulls down John’s pants. John breaks their kiss when he is shimmying out of the last piece of cloth he is wearing. And while he bows down to kiss Sherlock again, he straddles Sherlock and sits on his thighs. Sherlock looks down, at John’s hard and beautiful cock, so prominent and close to his. John is smiling somewhat challengingly and kisses him. Sherlock lets his hands travel down John’s sides. He can feel him shudder as his fingernails graze the sensitive skin. He hears him gasp into their kiss as he passes his hipbones, wanders down into his pubic hair and… rest there. 

“God, Sherlock, _do it._ Touch me.” 

John’s cock is large and incredibly hard. The skin feels delicate and silky. Sherlock explores it with his fingers – the shaft, his balls, the soft hair and the head – before falling into a rhythm of stroking. John’s breath sounds a little ragged now. Sherlock applies more pressure. He moves a tiny bit faster and draws teasing little circles onto the wet head of John’s cock, just as John did earlier. He is taking in each of John’s reactions. The speeding pulse he can feel under his skin, the small moans, the way his kisses turn sloppier and filthier. It is hard to catalogue him while John is touching Sherlock as well. It’s almost _too much, too good…_ John starts moving his hips and lets go of Sherlock’s cock for a second to take both of them into his hand. He starts stroking them, setting a torturingly slow pace. 

“Oh _God_ , John…” 

Sherlock’s hand drops down on the mattress and he closes his eyes. The way their cocks feel against each other is better than he ever dared to imagine. After a minute, Sherlock reaches for the drawer in the nightstand and fishes for a bottle of lube. He opens John’s hand wrapped around their cocks and squeezes the cool fluid out of the bottle. He spreads the lube over his cock, over John’s, and over John’s hand. It’s a perfect, moist mess, multiplying the intensity of the sensation so much he won’t last much longer. John is back to moving his hand around them in firm strokes. A bit faster, but still slow enough to make Sherlock growl in despair. John’s fist around his cock and his fingers on its head are incredible, more than he ever felt doing it himself. 

And then everything turns from _Oh_ _God John this is amazing don’t stop_ to _Oh_ _… oh… ooooh, FUCK, John…_ He is absorbed in pleasure and his vision cross-blends into white noise, only shattered by John’s distant voice. 

“Christ, you’re so gorgeous, Sherlock, _so_ gorgeous…” 

John strokes their cocks a few more times, then Sherlock hears him whisper his name once more. He feels John’s body go tense and his hot, wet come on his belly. John bows down to him, out of breath and still out of his mind, kissing him, his lips dry and cool from breathing too hard and too fast. 

With John’s chest on his, he feels John’s heartbeat and his fast, cool rushes of breath on his moist skin. The post-orgasmic haze washes a line from a song ashore from the depths of his memories… _all I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here, in my arms._ He has to smile and rolls his eyes at himself. 

“What is it?” John muffles against his chest. 

“Sentiment.” 

“Yes. That does happen, Sherlock.” 

“I find it quite… desirable.” 

“Oh.” John laughs. Then his voice sounds more earnest and he turns until he lies on his side, looking at Sherlock. 

“You do, Sherlock? Really?” 

“Yes, of course. Never desired anything – any _one_ – more than this. You.” 

John dips his head for a deep, long kiss. 

“You alright, Sherlock?” 

“Yes. Yes, I am. And you?” 

“Better than alright. Sherlock, I… Oh fuck, I guess I’ve wanted this for a long time.” 

Sherlock remains silent, not knowing what to say. After a while, he just repeats, “I never wanted anything more than this. Never anyone more than you, John.” 

“And here we finally are.” 

They are, indeed. Sherlock turns on his side. He swallows hard, about to get lost in a wave of emotions he had struggled to keep at an arm’s length for years. Emotions he had to avoid to make sure he was able to do the things he had to do. To jump, to survive, to come back. To plan a wedding, to be the best man. To give a speech, to be pierced by a bullet. And to survive again. But his dams are bursting. He is failing at protecting himself from his emotions and he can’t hold back. And so he curls into John’s arms. A whispered confession is making its way from somewhere deep inside him, past his brain and his controls, to his lips. 

“John, John, it’s been so long, it’s been so much…” he whispers. And then, without consciously deciding to do so, he tells John everything. How he wanted to protect him from the sniper on the rooftop, how he never thought he could hurt John so badly and how he did. Hurting him in the worst way possible. And how _he_ got hurt along the way and how this ached far more than the physical pain imposed on him when he was away. How he failed to protect John from marrying an assassin and starting a life that was going to hurt him even more. How he accepted a mission he wasn’t supposed to survive. How it hurt to say goodbye and how he failed to say the things that were important. 

John is holding his breath. Then he draws it in in a sharp inhale, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat, as Sherlock takes their past apart and rearranges the pieces of their history to a new picture. A picture that makes a lot more sense and aches so much. 

When the words finally ebb away, their eyes are wet. Sherlock buries his head in John’s chest. John holds him, kisses his hair and strokes his back, until he calms down, until his hot exhales come slower and they both finally breathe normally again. 

“It’s ok, Sherlock. It’s ok,” John says, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

After a while, Sherlock lifts his head and looks at him, his eyes slightly red. 

“Sherlock, look… I don’t know what to say. I don’t. The amount of things you have done for me…” John’s voice breaks. “It’s beyond anything I ever could have imagined. Sherlock.” 

John swallows. It really is too much for him to put into words right now, so he just kisses him, until he feels Sherlock’s body relax. 

“I’m here. And I won’t leave again. Ever. I was hurt, Sherlock, yes, but I am fine now. And you did save me, again and again. I am here with you and with Matilda and everything, Sherlock, _everything_ is fine.” 

He has never seen Sherlock so vulnerable. He has to think of how he was lying in bed with him, on that first morning he woke up next to Sherlock. When Sherlock was asleep. How he needed to touch him, to grasp that intimacy. He does it again. He strokes his soft eyebrows with his thumb. Sherlock closes his eyes. He touches his eyelids, the sensitive, soft skin with its miniature blue veins, fluttering at his touch and relaxing again. 

“I meant what I said, Sherlock. Stay with me. Every night.” 

“I will. I will, John.” 

John goes on caressing his face for a little while, allowing everything that has happened to sink in. Sherlock eventually dozes off in his arms. John sleeps for a little while, as well. 

When he awakes, he finds Sherlock looking at him with another shy smile. 

“I guess we should clean up a bit.” 

“Yeah… sounds like a good idea. What time is it?” 

Sherlock checks his phone. 

“Almost eleven.” 

“God, Matilda has been at Mrs Hudson’s for two and a half hours. I should go and have a look.” 

“They’re fine, John. I heard her going out with Matilda in her pram an hour ago. They’ll be strolling around Regent’s Park.” 

“Ah. Ok. So… shower?” 

“Sounds good. You want to go first?” 

“Hm… I thought… together, if you’re amenable?” 

“Oh. Well, yes. Very.” 

It has been ages since John has taken a shower with someone else. And when he did, that someone never was a man of 6’, taking up more space in the tub than he does. But they manage to arrange themselves. Half an hour, a lot of panting against slippery tiles, hands tousled into wet hair and two breathtaking orgasms later, they sit in the kitchen for a second breakfast. John went downstairs to Speedy’s to get some bagels and croissants. Sherlock actually did use that small Italian espresso machine to make coffee and even heated some milk. So when Mrs Hudson comes back and brings a very happy and well-rested Matilda, she stays for a homemade caffé latte. When she has finished her coffee, she kisses Matilda on the forehead and says, “It was wonderful with your little girl. If you need me again, just let me know, boys – anytime!” 

The rest of the day they both are a bit flustered. Neither John nor Sherlock can yet completely understand the fundamental change that has just taken place. And even though they aren’t as shaken as they were that morning, the weight of Sherlock’s revelation still lingers. As do Mycroft’s words. They make jokes and laugh, but behind their laughter is an attentive cautiousness, a constant _Are you alright?_ and an _I am. I am because of you._

John feels Sherlock’s gaze on him, on his body, on his face. Whenever he looks up, he meets his eyes. He can’t help but touch Sherlock, he can’t take his hands off him. Even if it is only for small everyday touches like brushing his hand against his as he passes him the sugar for his coffee. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line of the song Sherlock remembers is from Depeche Mode's [ "Enjoy the silence"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aGSKrC7dGcY) (1990).
> 
>  
> 
> All I ever wanted  
> All I ever needed  
> Is here in my arms  
> Words are very unnecessary  
> They can only do harm


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-reading this chapter before posting I realized that there isn't much of a prelude... so you have to take the smut straight ahead.

They have dinner early and Matilda falls asleep quickly that night, as if she knew John and Sherlock are desperate for some time on their own.  
  
John isn’t sure what Sherlock wants or needs right now. But when he comes downstairs from putting Matilda to bed, Sherlock makes it quite clear that he wants _him_. He kisses him in the hallway, slowly dragging him into his bedroom, where they undress. Not in a hurry, but not exactly slowly either. John can’t wait to breathe in Sherlock’s scent again, to feel his naked skin against his. They don’t talk. This is some kind of bonding – as if to seal and to deepen their connection with physical contact, with opening up and falling apart in each other’s arms. With sex. With sex being so much more than satisfying physical needs. John moans when Sherlock kisses him, and he draws him close, very close. John needs to feel him with all of his body. To grasp this new reality. 

Their kisses have lost their tentativeness, they turn bold and genuine. John has never been so aroused just by kissing. And he won’t get enough of it. He guides Sherlock to the bed, somewhere between helping him and gently making sure he comes along. Sherlock couldn’t resist even if he wanted to. He enjoys being so incredibly, arousingly naked lying there during that split second before John follows him, covering his body with his own. When Sherlock feels John’s skin touch his own and John’s cock against his hips, he pulls him into another deep kiss. He tenderly bites John’s lip while he lets his hands slip down John’s back to his ass. The jeans and woollen jumpers haven’t prepared Sherlock for how muscular and firm John’s cheeks are. Even though he didn’t intend to do so, he _grabs_ them, kneads them, he has to feel them. The way Sherlock’s hands feel on his ass pushes the air out of John’s lungs, _Fuck, this is amazing..._ He growls in delight. When he starts thrusting against Sherlock’s hip, his balls brush against Sherlock’s cock. _Oh my God. I need it. Now._

This issomething else he won’t ever get enough of. He reaches down to touch Sherlock’s gorgeous cock, taking his time to explore it. The warm, dry, delicate skin, the sensitive head. Sherlock hisses as John thumb grazes it and he moans when he closes his fist around his shaft. 

Sherlock kisses him hungrier, filthier and open-mouthed. When he finally groans under John’s touch, John starts to work him steadily and firmly. He has Sherlock panting within a minute, sweat on his forehead and his cock wet with precome. He lets go of his cock, adds some lube and starts grinding his hips and his cock against Sherlock’s. _Oh God yes._ Sherlock takes up John’s rhythm and gets lost in it _,_ _This_ _feels so… good… oh, John._

“John…” 

“Yeah?” 

This comes out more like a pant than John has intended to. Sherlock takes a deep, shaky breath. 

“I want you… I want you to fuck me.” 

John hesitates, his head clearing up a little. 

“Sherlock, you sure? We can take this slowly, we’ve got at all the time in the world…” 

“I want it. John. I do.” 

John swallows. 

“Do _you_ want it, John?” 

“God… yes.” 

John has to pull himself together to not just come right now, this is more than he would ever have imagined. _Focus, Watson._

“Do you... have condoms, Sherlock?” 

“No.” 

“Well, I might, somewhere in the bathroom, maybe… I’ll just…” 

“No. John. I’m clean. You are. I’ve checked. We don’t need them.” 

Still John rises to get up from the bed. 

“You really sure?” 

“This is nothing I’d be careless about.” 

John sinks back onto Sherlock’s thighs again. _So this is it._ He breathes deeply. And he has to admit that he is a lot more nervous than he would like to believe. 

“We should… prepare… a bit,” Sherlock whispers. “Touch me, John.” 

So John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s cock again, stroking it, and Sherlock sighs. And relaxes. A little later, his hand slides down to Sherlock’s balls. He grazes them. _God, does he shave them? There’s not a single hair. Oh fuck, they feel amazing…_ Sherlock spreads his legs a little wider, allowing John to touch his perineum and _goddamn everything_ behind there. John is nervous, excited and blown away by it, by the way Sherlock feels under his fingertips. Soft skin, warm, wet from sweat and lust, tight muscles – _God, is this is it? Am I right?_ – he circles it with two fingers. Sherlock moans. 

“Yes, there. Careful, John.” 

“I know,” John whispers. „Lube?” 

Sherlock hands him the bottle. John takes a few large drops on his index and middle finger, spreading it and waiting a moment until the cool liquid has warmed up a bit. When he touches Sherlock again, he hears him exhale vocally. Sherlock sighs a “Yes” and John gently presses one finger inside him. 

He has done that before. He is a doctor. But this is a completely different situation. While he has always tried to be as careful, gentle and professional as possible, that was nothing compared to how slowly he approaches Sherlock’s body now. Finally, he glides inside him surprisingly easy. It is hot and tight even for his one finger. He pauses, giving Sherlock time to adjust. 

“Move, John. Just a bit.” 

John pushes in a little further, exploring, and sliding back a little. He looks at Sherlock, his eyes are closed and his hand is gliding up and down his cock so slowly. _Oh fuck, when did that happen…?_

“You alright?” 

“So good. Yes.” 

John swallows. His own cock is so hard it almost aches. 

“Sherlock, have you done this before?” 

“Mmhhh?” 

“God, sorry. I just… I just feel like I want to know.” 

“Had some sort of sex – yes. Did _this_ – no.” 

John exhales. 

“You sure then? You really want to do this?” 

“Yes, John. I want to feel you, I want to… have you inside me. I want you to fill my body the way you fill my brain and my thoughts, I… I want you to claim me, to make me yours… I want it. I am sure.” 

“God, Sherlock.” 

“And you? Back then, I mean?” 

“Had some sort of sex, yes. Did this, no,” John smiles. 

“So we’re both some kind of virgin then, right?” 

John can hear a hint of insecurity beneath that joke and briefly considers stopping all this, when Sherlock says, “Go on, John. I want it,“ and, after an exhale, adds, “I want it so fucking much.” 

Sherlock looks at him and gives the slightest nod. And John finally, _finally_ gives in and moves his hand again, slowly. Sherlock’s eyes shutter closed and he sinks back into the pillow, mumbling “God, yes, John…” 

John goes on moving inside Sherlock. When he brushes his prostate, Sherlock’s thighs shiver and he sucks in the air. 

“Yes. That. More. Careful…” 

“I will be careful… relax.” 

“Oh God, fuck, it’s so… God, John…” Sherlock pants. “Two fingers.” 

“Ok.” 

John slips his finger out and then enters again, two fingers now. It is easier than it was the first time. 

“Faster…” 

He moves his hand faster. He feels Sherlock starting to thrust against him eventually, moaning hoarsely. Sherlock’s breaths come quicker and quicker and his cock is twitching when he finally comes to a halt and breathes, “Do it, John. I’m so close. I need you. Now.” 

John swallows. _I want him, too._ He withdraws his fingers and sits up, takes the lube and spreads it on his cock. He leans down to Sherlock, the tip of his cock touching his hole. Sherlock puts his hands at John’s hips and gently pulls him closer. John glides inside. He hears his own breathing, his own heartbeat and, from afar, his own voice cursing “Oh fuck…” He pushes in deeper, millimetre after millimetre into heat and tightness and _Oh my fucking God_ Sherlock. 

When he can’t go any further, Sherlock inhales, pants and, after a long moment of adjusting, he carefully starts moving his hips. They go like this for a while, until Sherlock relaxes visibly. John tries to steady himself, keeping himself from pushing. _Take it slow, Watson, slow… focus…_

He manages to set a slow and steady pace, but after a while, Sherlock tilts his hips until John hits the right spot. And – _Christ!_ – he can feel Sherlock melt down. Sherlock starts thrusting against him. He is panting hard, biting his lower lip and moaning John’s name between his ragged breaths. He thrusts harder, pushing onto John’s cock, taking what he needs. 

And now John moves. He claims Sherlock with his body, he makes him his, he fucks him. And he completely loses himself in him, allows himself to be claimed and hands himself over to the man underneath him. _Loves_ him. 

After a breathless eternity, Sherlock’s back arches, he shouts John’s name, and comes. 

John’s own orgasm rolls in like a wave on the shore. He can see it coming, building up and when it finally crashes over him, it is perfect and blissful. It lifts him off his feet and carries him away, out on the open sea, leaving him adrift. 

Later, he finds himself on Sherlock’s chest, propped on his elbows beside Sherlock’s body. Sherlock has flung his arms around him and he is holding him, catching his breath. John kisses his chest. A little moan escapes Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock lies there, enjoying the gentle touch of John’s mouth on his skin. After a while, John starts kissing a line up to his collar bone, his neck and when he reaches his chin, Sherlock dips his head and hungrily kisses back. Despite of the absolutely amazing sex they have just had, John is already thrilled again by the way Sherlock’s tongue feels against his. They kiss slowly, passionately, deeply. Until Sherlock hesitantly breaks the kiss, letting it fade out with a few nibbles of teeth against John’s lower lip. 

“Everything ok, Sherlock?” 

“God yes.” John can hear his smile. “But I’m tired. Oh God, I’ve never been this tired before.” 

“Maybe we should both go to bathroom before falling asleep…” 

“You go first, John. Hurry. I want you back here.” 

John glides out of the bed. In the bathroom, he thinks, _This is a first. Walking in here from Sherlock’s bedroom, naked. – Christ, all of the past days were a first._

He has to sit down for a moment and wait until the world has stopped turning too quickly. Then he cleans up and drinks some water. Back in Sherlock’s bedroom, he finds Sherlock nearly asleep. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Get up. Bathroom. You’ll probably regret it if you don’t go now.” 

“Yes, you relentless git.” He gets up, eyes half-closed. On his way to the bathroom John hears him mutter, “What did I think to take an ex-soldier to my bed…” and he knows Sherlock _is_ alright. 

John sinks down on Sherlock’s bed and he has to admit, he is exhausted, too _. It has been quite a lot of sex for one day_ _._ _God, sex with Sherlock –_ and John’s heart skips a beat at this thought _–_ _and_ _so much has happened. Goodness._ __

He smiles, happy and shaken and tired. When he closes his eyes, inhaling Sherlock’s scent that is lingering in the cushions, he suddenly has to think of Matilda. In that moment, Sherlock comes back, naked and so beautiful. 

“Sherlock, could you go and get the baby monitor? Just want to make sure we’ll hear Matilda.” 

Sherlock nods and shuffles to the kitchen to get the baby monitor. He puts it on the nightstand and crawls into bed. John’s chest almost aches from the sudden intimacy of having him back here. Even though he doesn’t know where he takes the energy from, he lifts a little, takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him. 

Before he can think about it, he says, “I love you, Sherlock. God, I really do.” 

Sherlock looks at him, a little taken aback. Then the slightest smile curls his mouth as he whispers, “Love you, too, John. Always have.” 

They kiss a few more times. Then John lies down next to Sherlock, and Sherlock can feel John relax. His muscles let go of the tension of being awake, his hands curl into loose fists. He sinks deeper into the mattress and closer to Sherlock. The last thing John realizes as his breathing becomes lighter and more regularly, is Sherlock, warm and naked and real, falling asleep curled up beside him. 

\--- 

This night, John doesn’t wake up. In fact, he wakes so late in the morning, he is a little disorientated. It takes a minute to realize where is he is. Sherlock is gone, but _everything_ smells like him. John sinks back into his pillow, burying his nose in it the way he did last night. 

_So. Sherlock. And I._

He breathes in Sherlock’s scent. 

_What does it feel like, Watson?_

He turns on his back again. 

_Feels fucking good._

He stretches. 

_Sure about it?_

He opens his eyes. 

_Absolutely. No chance I ever let him go again._

And with that, it is settled for John. So easily, in the end. What Sherlock had whispered against his chest yesterday morning had changed everything. John knows no one can tell him how things will work out between Sherlock and him. There is no guarantee he won’t ever be hurt by Sherlock. There never is. But this fear of not being what Sherlock wants, that he might be bored with John one day, _this_ is gone. As is everything holding him back from a relationship with a man. It is gone as well. He doesn’t understand anymore how it could scare him off for years. 

There are steps outside the bedroom door, getting closer. John looks around for his pants. He fishes them from the floor and puts them on, a little more hurried than he would like to. But cuddling Matilda naked after his first night with Sherlock – well, a bit not good. The door opens and Sherlock comes in, Matilda on his arm. She is still wearing her little white sleeping bag that makes her look even more adorable and innocent. And she smiles. Sherlock smiles. When Matilda sees John, she stretches out her tiny arms. Sherlock hands him one of his dressing gowns, John puts it on and kisses Matilda’s forehead. He meets Sherlock’s eyes after that kiss and kisses him, too. A moment longer than the average Good Morning Kiss might take and with a hint of last night’s passion. Sherlock blushes. 

_Oh fuck, this feels so good, it’s ridiculous._

And this is the feeling dominating the next days. John expects it to vanish throughout the first day or to get weaker, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t diminish on the second day, either. And not on the third. And Sherlock is radiating the same kind of happiness. On that first day, John feels like going out. It is bright and sunny again and he absolutely doesn’t want to stay in the flat. It takes him a little while until he realizes what makes him want to go outside: He feels like telling the world _Look what an amazing man I’ve found. Look. He said he loves me. After fucking everything we went through, he still loves me. This ridiculously gorgeous, breathtaking man._

They do go out, they put Matilda in her pram and decide to walk to a café a few streets from Marylebone Station Sarah had told John about ages ago. It is none of their usual places. Even though it is rather unlikely to walk into people you know in a place like London anyway, John is grateful for the anonymity of the metropolis. Things between him and Sherlock still are too fresh to reveal them to their friends. But testing what it feels like to be a couple amongst strangers feels… good. 

John has the impression that Sherlock is – exactly like he does himself – testing out how to act in public. They brush their hands a lot more often when they hand things over brunch at the café, and John always feels like letting his hand linger just for the blink of an eye. When they are about to leave and John is holding Matilda and Sherlock puts her little jacket on, Sherlock is standing so close (just because now, _he can_ ) that John accidentally hits Sherlock’s nose with his head. Sherlock hisses at the sudden pain. 

“God, Sherlock, sorry. Guess we’ll just have to figure a whole lot of things out, don’t we?” 

“We probably do, John,” Sherlock says, rubbing his nose. “And we should. Your head is too hard to repeat this.” 

John smiles and licks his lips. Sherlock pauses rubbing his nose and tilts his head looking at John. Under his gaze, John’s heart starts beating astonishingly loud. After a moment, he clears his throat and he says in a low voice, “Maybe we’ll just go now… with a bit of luck, Matilda falls asleep on the way home.” 

She does and they walk home quickly, without much talking. At home, Sherlock carries her to her bed as gently as he can, making sure she doesn’t wake. John’s heartbeat is thrumming in his ears again when he sees Sherlock coming down the stairs. He has been aware how attractive Sherlock is from the first day they met. But now, since he has allowed himself to _really see_ it, he can’t take his eyes off him at all. Since he knows what his skin looks like underneath that tight shirt, since he knows the colour of his nipples and the shape of his navel, he can’t think of much else. He starts undoing the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt before they even enter the bedroom. Kissing him in between, Sherlock is pulling the hem of John’s shirt out of his waistband, opening his buckle and pushing down his trousers. Within a minute, they are naked, panting and touching each other desperately. 

Sherlock wants to find out everything about loving John, he catalogues him with his mouth and his tongue and his nose and his hands and all of his skin. He is being taken apart by how much pleasure John can make him feel, never having been aware of what this transport actually is capable of _feeling._ John loses himself in watching Sherlock come some time later and is overwhelmed by the intensity of his own orgasm. When they both have caught their breath again, they kiss and kiss. Without the needy edge of desire, but purely enjoying their intimacy and the fact that they can do this now, that they are this now. 

And this is how the next days pass. They are just centred around each other, adjusting to them as _them_ and don’t feel any need to bother about anyone or anything else, except for Matilda, of course. More than once, John gratefully thinks of the money that allows him to be at home all day instead of spending his time at the clinic. 

One night, when they lie on the sofa entangled in each other, reading, it hits John quite out of nowhere. And it is so fucking simple and so _obvious, really,_ he has to laugh. 

“T’is it, John?” Sherlock asks distractedly when John’s laughter makes his head jump, which is lying in John’s belly. 

“Just realized something.” 

“Oh.” And, after a moment, “Tell me about it?” 

“I’m… well… I’m really madly, stupidly in love with you.” 

Sherlock goes on reading. He doesn’t say anything. John looks at him, waiting for an answer, a reaction, _anything._

After two minutes, Sherlock lifts his right hand, cups John’s head and pulls him down into a kiss John is not ever going to forget. 


	19. Chapter 19

On one of the next days, Matilda is getting into a rather bad mood. She is crying a lot, her cheeks are reddened and she is drooling a lot. _Teething_ , John thinks, when she gets all sore in her nappies by the end of the day. It isn’t her first tooth, she has got two tiny white teeth in her lower jaw, but maybe the upper ones are coming now. 

The night is a mess. It takes ages until she falls asleep and when she finally does, she wakes two hours later, crying again. John kisses Sherlock’s naked chest, leaves his bed and puts on a dressing gown. She drinks one more bottle of warm milk, but doesn’t fall asleep afterwards. In the end, John crawls into his own bed, holding and cuddling her until she calms down. 

Sherlock finds them like that twenty minutes later. He heard John pacing in his room. And at some point, it seemed to become more and more improbable that John would come back and carry on where they had stopped before. He had put on a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms and went upstairs, not willing to spend the night alone in his bed. Without John. 

When the mattress depresses under his weight as he is lying down, John opens his eyes. 

“Sleeping here?“ 

“Yes. Shhh. Go back to sleep, John.“ 

Sherlock shuffles closer to John, turns around and lets himself be spooned by him. John holds him tight and after a few minutes, Sherlock notices John’s half-hard cock pressing against his buttocks. 

When Matilda wakes up at twenty to three, it is Sherlock who gets up, changes her nappy and does his best to make her get back to sleep. She finally does around four, and when Sherlock gets back to bed this time, John is still asleep. 

Matilda wakes once more at half past five. Despite his stating that sleep is boring, Sherlock doesn’t even wake up. John takes her downstairs and takes a carrot from the fridge, cleans it and offers it to her to chew on. Matilda is fascinated, apparently it is still cool from the fridge, tastes funny and is a nice thing to play with. An hour later John decides to give sleeping another try. Sherlock finds him draped across his chest, his hand under Sherlock’s shirt and his legs entangled with his own when the sun is lighting the room brightly. 

He caresses the fine hair in John’s nape while he tries to process the past days. He has given up all the distance to John, all his self-protecting solitude. He hadn’t meant to do that, he just didn’t have the energy to keep it up anymore. A part of him didn’t want to, despite everything he thought he knew about dealing with _involvement_. Sherlock saw how John tried to overcome his well-worn patterns of denial and fear and he was quite impressed. 

_Maybe it is about time that I let go of mine._

He suddenly realizes that this might have been exactly what Mycroft was pursuing when he talked to John. He growls at his interference. If he had his mobile within reach he would at least send him an infuriated text. But it is downstairs in his own room and he cannot possibly leave this cozy intimacy just to insult Mycroft. 

John’s hair glistens golden in the morning light. _He is a brave man,_ Sherlock thinks. A doctor and a soldier, his colleague and his friend, his blogger and his conductor of light. His _best_ friend. A father and... his lover. Sherlock knows he should feel vulnerable with this amount of emotion and affection. Weakened by the fact that he can’t hide it anymore, that he has told John about each and every thing he had done for him. But he doesn’t. In fact, it is rather a burden being taken from him. No more hiding. No more denying. 

John moves and his breathing deepens. He wakes. He turns his head to face Sherlock and opens his eyes. 

“Hey. Morning.“ 

“Good morning, John.“ 

“Could you sleep again?“ 

“Yes. Thanks for looking after Matilda.“ 

“Good.“ 

John’s head sinks down on Sherlock’s chest again. 

“You smell good,“ John says, his voice muffled against Sherlock’s shirt. He presses a kiss to his chest and then his fingers travel under his shirt, brush over Sherlock’s nipples and almost make him gasp. 

“Later on, we could get back to where we had to stop last night,“ John says, each word a huff of warm breath on Sherlock’s skin. 

“Please...“ 

John’s hand slowly glides down his sternum, past his scar, over his stomach and navel down to the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. His fingers dance over the cloth, over his cock. 

“You feel amazing, Sherlock.“ 

John props himself up on his elbows. 

“God, you have no idea what I’d like to do to you now.“ John sighs. “But I can’t really do that with Matilda waking any minute... and the night was bad, I need coffee. And breakfast. Or I’ll pass out before we get anywhere near sex.“ 

“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen, John.” He kisses him, teasing him a little until John sighs. “Stay in bed as long as Matilda is still asleep. I’ll take care of breakfast.“ 

“Will you? Thanks.“ 

When Sherlock leaves John’s bedroom, John has his eyes closed and pulls Sherlock’s pillow to bury his nose in it. 

While Sherlock prepares breakfast – including espresso – John’s phone beeps on the kitchen table. When the ham is just ready to be eaten, John comes downstairs, Matilda on his arm. They both look tired. 

“Look, Matilda, there’s your carrot. Chew. It’ll help you with your teeth,“ John offers wearily. While Matilda actually does start chewing her carrot, they eat in tired, companionable silence. 

“Another espresso?“ 

“God, please.“ 

Sherlock puts the small espresso machine on the cooker again. While he waits for the water to boil and vaporize, he spots John’s phone between the package of sandwiches and the butter. 

“Your phone. You got a text.“ 

“Ah, thanks. Let me see.“ 

_Hi John, sorry you haven’t heard from me in a while. Work was keeping me horribly busy. I’d still like you to meet Melinda. How about some day during the next two weeks? Harry._

“It’s... Harry. Wants me to meet her girlfriend.“ 

“Thought you didn’t want to.“ 

“Well, I promised her.“ 

John thinks how meeting them would be best, _Maybe sometime on the weekend, Harry’s at work all day otherwise... Or in the evening, but that’s just crap with Matilda teething. Could ask Sherlock to look after her while I’m..._

“Invite them for dinner.“ 

“What, Sherlock?“ 

“Invite them over some night, cook something or order in. I’ll put Matilda to bed and look after her.“ 

“You don’t mind then?“ 

“No. She’s your sister. You’re dealing with Mycroft every few weeks. I think I can handle your yet unknown sister for an evening.“ 

“Oh. Ok. Then. I’ll text her.“ 

_Hey, how about dinner at our place on Friday? At 8?_ After a second of hesitation, he adds, _Looking forward to seeing you and Melinda. -John_

_Sounds perfect._

\--- 

Matilda is whiny and crotchety all day. They take turns in looking after her, distracting her with toys and picture books as good as they can. She falls asleep again in the late morning. 

“Maybe we should have a nap as well, Sherlock.” 

“A nap? I don’t do naps.” 

“Oh you do, quite a lot, actually. On the sofa, on my lap just yesterday, or whenever you’re on a case and pretend you don’t need any sleep.” 

“Oh shut it,” Sherlock says with a hint of laughter in his voice. He gets up from his chair, puts his laptop aside and walks over to John, who is standing in the kitchen, just having come downstairs. When Sherlock looks at him, he feels rather… _pierced_ by his grey-green-blue eyes. 

“What kind of nap were you thinking of, then?” Sherlock’s voice is dangerously deep and velvety. John clears his throat. _Is Sherlock being… flirtatious? Seductive? It’s all so fucking new, but if he actually is, I’m not going to be able to resist him for the buggering blink of an eye. Ever._

“Let’s… find out.” 

In Sherlock’s bedroom, they undress each other, and feel the tension building up. The sex they have had throughout the last days was rather about intimacy and being close _(a hell of a hot intimacy,_ John has to admit). _This_ is something more playful, more testing, more daring. John feels Sherlock’s cock pressing in his lower belly, leaving a wet spot on his skin. He sighs and kisses Sherlock harder. He bites his ridiculously full lower lip until Sherlock groans lowly. 

“Earlier, you said something about all the things you want to do to me, John… I’ve been _thinking_ about that.” 

John swallows and Sherlock drops to his knees while they both stand in front of his bed. He takes John’s cock into his mouth and John, completely taken by surprise, is almost about to pass out from the sensation of feeling Sherlock’s tongue just _there_. 

“Oh fuck, Sherlock,” he gasps, his voice trembling. Sherlock inhales with a small moan. For an endless minute, John tries to resist the impulse of putting his hands into Sherlock’s dark curls. Pulling his head and his mouth closer onto him. But finally he gives in, and when he does it, he feels Sherlock growl in surprise and delight. 

John’s hands on his head make the blood rush through Sherlock’s veins. John’s panting, the way he sharply sucks in the air when he slowly lets his cock glide up his tongue. He can feel John is fighting the urge to thrust into his mouth. He tastes his precome, salty, with a hint of bitterness. It mixes with his own saliva, making everything even wetter and more slippery. _John. This is John._ Of course, he has given John’s cock quite a lot of thought when imagining it, just assuming he would love it. Which proved right during the last few days. But now that he tastes it and feels it in his mouth, he realizes just how amazed he is by it. _But of course, it’s John’s. How could it not be amazing._

With very slightly shaking hands – _hope John doesn’t notice_ – he gently pushes John’s legs further apart, spreading them far enough to comfortably cup his balls. He takes in the soft skin and the shudder rolling through John’s body when he touches him there. 

“God, yes…” John moans. 

He lets his fingers glide from John’s perineum up his balls when John interrupts him. 

“I’m… I’m getting too close, Sherlock.” He pants heavily. “just a bit… slower. I want to see you come undone, too.” 

Sherlock hesitantly lets go of John’s cock and rises to his feet. John draws him into a hungry kiss, groaning when he tastes himself in Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Oh, that’s amazing...“ 

“You like that?“ Sherlock pants. 

“Christ, yes.“ 

Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s cock and with two fingers, he sweeps the precome off the head, leaving John moaning. Then he puts his fingers into John’s mouth and John can’t help but _suck_ them, suck the salty taste from Sherlock’s long fingers. Sherlock lets his fingers glide out of John’s mouth, drawing two thick wet stripes over his lower lip, his chin and his neck. He kisses him, needy to taste John in his own mouth. 

And John is certain he is about to come from just this. He swallows a curse and then feels Sherlock’s cock against his belly again. Now it is him dropping to his knees, curious and _bloody_ wanting to taste him. 

Originally, he just wanted to lick Sherlock’s cock, gather his precome in his mouth and kiss him afterwards. See how Sherlock would react to it, if it made him pant and groan the way he did himself. But Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, the different textures of his skin, the way he tastes – it takes him by surprise and he is fascinated and incredibly aroused by it. Sherlock’s cock feels large, John has to adjust how to breathe and how to swallow in between, and he tries not to hurt him with his teeth. 

He feels Sherlock shiver and gasp for air when he starts circling the head of his cock with his tongue. 

“God, John, I... I have to sit down,“ he pants. 

John lets go of Sherlock. 

“Have you done that before?“ John asks, just as out of breath as Sherlock. 

“Ages ago... and it didn’t feel like _this_. Go on, _now_ ,“ he begs. 

John takes his cock back into his mouth. Sherlock sucks in the air. He leans back, propped on his hands and _watches_ : John’s head moving slowly up and down, his lips around his shaft. The fact that Sherlock watches him doing this makes him a bit nervous and, _oh God yes_ , excited. He feels Sherlock’s gaze on his head as he moves up and down, taking his cock as deep as he can and then slowly let it glide out again. He tries to do that what likes himself about blowjobs, curious to find out how Sherlock will react to it. He gently sucks at the head and lets his tongue glide around it. When he starts licking his frenulum, Sherlock moans and lets himself glide down on mattress, until he lies on his back, panting. 

Ever since they started having sex, John was taken aback by how much Sherlock actually enjoys it. Before that, he would even thought it possible that Sherlock would dismiss it as mere transport, as too much of a distraction from his work. Or that he simply might not be interested in it. But it works out completely different. Sherlock loves it. Often John sees his hesitation or something like shyness, like just getting used to it or exploring it. But more than that he sees curiosity, want and passion. And today, there is this new note of playfulness and daring. 

John goes on, enjoying it more and more, until Sherlock moans vocally. Sherlock’s thighs start to shiver and he thrusts into John’s mouth, carefully at first, then, losing it all, hard and desperate. He comes with a long sigh and the tension in his beautiful body evaporates. The amount of come in his mouth surprises him, he coughs a little. The taste is… unusual, but not bad. _Quite interesting, actually._ Before he gives it further thought, he swallows it. 

“John,” Sherlock whispers, still breathing heavily. 

John crawls up to him and is immediately drawn into a kiss. Sherlock is a pliant and soft mess, cuddly and still wanting him, riding that post-orgasmic endorphine high. He reaches down and starts stroking John’s cock and John can’t help but hiss, “Oh fuck,” and he knows he won’t last. It just takes him a few more strokes together with Sherlock’s kisses, wet and hungry and so very _giving_ at the same time. Then he pants curses and caresses into Sherlock’s mouth and comes over Sherlock’s hand and belly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a bit behind on editing, so it might take a few days until I post the next chapters.


	20. Chapter 20

In the evening they agree on sleeping upstairs in John’s bed again. The night is as restless as the previous one, just as Matilda is in a similarly bad mood during the following days. When Harry and Melinda come to John’s and Sherlock’s, it is no different. Actually, it is even worse.  
  
John starts preparing the food too late. When he is halfway done with the lasagna, the sauce gets burned and he realizes he hasn’t got enough pasta. In the end, he dumps the whole thing frustratedly and orders something from Angelo’s. Angelo usually doesn’t do takeaway or delivery, but when John calls, he doesn’t even mention that. 35 minutes later, various boxes with primi and secondi piatti, with pizza, salad and even tiramisù are stapled in the kitchen and fill the flat with a mouth-watering smell. Sherlock tries to put Matilda to sleep. She undoubtedly notices that something is about to happen _without_ her and she isn’t very happy about that. The door bell rings and Mrs Hudson shows Harry and Melinda up the stairs. John rushes to the hallway, gesturing them inside and laying a finger over his lips. 

“Shhh! I’m so sorry, but Matilda is a bit nerve-wracking right now...“ 

“No problem, John. We’ll be quiet.“ 

Harry hugs him and John shows them into the kitchen. 

“So. Hi. I’m John,“ he says, stretching his hand out to Melinda. Melinda is a bit taller than Harry, has light brown, shoulder length hair and an open, friendly face. _She might be a few years younger than Harry, mid-thirties, maybe?_

“Hello, John. I’m Melinda. Thanks for the invitation. Oh God, the food smells delicious!“ 

“Yes, I tried making lasagna, but... Well, it was a disaster and I ended up ordering in from a nice little restaurant in Soho. They’re usually quite good. Shall we get started?“ 

“Please, I might drool on the table otherwise.“ 

John casts a smile at Harry. He fills their glasses and they start eating. 

“Hey, where is Sherlock? Shouldn’t we have waited?“ 

“He’s upstairs, doing his best to put Matilda to sleep. He told me not to wait for him, it might take a while. She’s teething and he doesn’t eat very much.“ 

“Oh. Sounds like a dream team, the two of them,“ Harry retorts. 

“Yes, they actually get along pretty... fine.“ 

Over dinner, John learns that Melinda is a photographer, that she is really fond of Harry and that she has a nice sense of humour. When they have finished the primi piatti, Sherlock comes downstairs with Matilda’s empty bottle. 

“Oh, Sherlock. She’s not asleep then?“ 

“No, I’ll get her another bottle of milk. And my violin.“ 

Sherlock looks at Harry and Melinda. 

“I’m Sherlock. Hello.“ 

They shake hands, he refills the bottle and grabs his violin from the living room. When he passes John on the way back to the hallway door, he brushes his hand against John’s back for the shortest of moments, just enough to make brief contact. And to be sure this touch wasn’t a coincidence. John leans back, even when the moment has passed, feeling where Sherlock has just touched him. 

A moment later, they hear violin music from the upstairs bedroom. 

“That’s beautiful. Sherlock plays very well,“ Melinda points out. 

“Yes. He does. Helps Matilda fall asleep sometimes.“ 

“Amazing man,“ Harry says thoughtfully, while watching John closely. 

Eventually, the music stops and Sherlock comes back to the kitchen. He even has a slice of the pizza and some tiramisù. And astonishingly, he refrains from being a complete dickhead during the conversation. He is rather quiet, but not unfriendly. Later on, he even tries to engage in some small talk when Melinda asks about some of his cases or about the violin. 

“My mum was a violinist at the National Symphony Orchestra.“ 

“Oh really? What’s her name? And when did she play?“ 

Sherlock and Melinda walk over to Sherlock’s open violin box in the living room. 

When Harry thinks they are out of earshot, she steps closer to John, who is putting their dirty plates into the sink. “You’re shagging,“ she whispers. 

John stops. 

“What?“ 

“You’re shagging.“ She pauses and when John keeps staring at her, she goes on, “Oh _come on_ , John – the way you look at him and how he touched your back before he went upstairs. A blind man could see it.“ 

“Well – _yes_ – but there’s a bit more to the whole thing than just sex, I’d say.“ 

“You’re sharing a flat and you’re raising Matilda together.“ 

“Yes!“ 

John doesn’t even know why he sounds so exasperated. 

“Oh, John, you’re in love! You are!“ 

Harry starts giggling, she hugs him and kisses his cheek. 

_Christ, she hasn’t done_ that _since she was thirteen._

“I’m so happy for you.“ 

“Well, thanks, Harry.“ 

He clears his throat. 

“Another coke?“ 

She grins and walks into the living room. 

\--- 

Later on, after Melinda and Harry have left, John and Sherlock lie on the sofa, having a glass of whisky. 

“So. What do you think about Harry, Sherlock?“ 

“Hm. You want me _to deduce the shit out of her,_ as you have once so elegantly put it?“ 

“Never said that. You’re making that up. But yes. ‘M curious.“ 

“No alcohol for at least nine months. Rather determined to stop drinking for good. Therapy, dealing with childhood issues and alcoholism. Rather... successfully, though. Bored with her job, but not frustrated. Happy with Melinda. Thinks about marriage.“ 

“Christ, that’s quick. Took her six years with Clara.“ 

John starts stroking Sherlock’s belly. 

“She wants children, too.“ 

“Really? She never said.“ 

John has to think of the last time they met and how delighted she was about Matilda. 

“And Melinda?“ 

“Hm. Very liberal. Grew up in Hampstead. Only child. Artists’ family. University in France. Runs her own business.“ 

“Yep, she’s a photographer.“ 

“Knew it. Next to her work for a couple of magazines she has a successful side business with not-so-normal nude photography.“ 

“Oh, really?“ John laughs. 

“Yes, probably publishes the pictures under her not-so-real name, too.“ 

“Jesus. My sister. With her.“ 

“Yep, I think that’s how they got to know each other.“ 

“Ah, right, I think that’s enough information on that special topic for now. What else?“ 

“She’s very disciplined and straight forward. Very loyal. And – how do people say that? – she can set borders. Probably not the worst set of character traits in a relationship with a recovering alcoholic. No debts, which is uncommon for Londoners her age. Bisexual, but no relationship with a man in the past ten years. Devoted to your sister, though not considering marriage yet.“ 

“What does she think about kids?“ 

“Might want them and is aware that she has only a couple of years left until receiving will become significantly more difficult.“ 

“I see. Doesn’t sound too bad altogether then.“ 

“No. She’s not dull, either. Neither of them are. Harry is quite likeable, actually.“ 

“That’s high praise from you.“ 

John smiles. That was more than he had expected. 

“Don’t stop stroking my belly, John.“ 

“Oh, right.“ 

John goes back to stroking Sherlock. He pulls his shirt out of his trousers and slips his hand underneath the dark charcoal shirt. The way Sherlock’s skin feels under his fingertips still takes his breath away. 

“Thanks for the nice evening, Sherlock.“ 

Tired from whisky and bad nights they go to bed a little later. John doesn’t stop touching and stroking and caressing Sherlock’s belly until they are asleep. ** __**


	21. Chapter 21

Two weeks later, on July 7th, it is John’s birthday. Sherlock had been in an oddly excited mood the days before, full of vim, and John gets an idea of what Sherlock must have been like as a child. 

But despite whatever Sherlock had planned in advance, things work out differently. Sherlock’s phone rings when they have just started breakfast. Even before Sherlock can give John his presents. He takes the call after the third ringing, muffling a “What?“ against a mouthful of toast. John can hear Greg’s voice on the other side. Sherlock replies, exasperated, “You’ve had three dead _cats_ at the Barbican yesterday? Greg, are you... out of your mind?“ 

John can’t help but huff a laugh. He is simply in a mood too good to be annoyed. 

“No, for God’s sakes, I’m not coming to investigate on your three dead cats. And, after all, it’s John’s birthday today.“ And he adds, more to himself really and rather annoyed, “I can’t believe that _this_ is what the Yard’s finest are dealing with these days.“ 

Sherlock is about to end the call when John interrupts. 

“Hey, Sherlock, why not? Tell him we’re coming. Give us an hour.“ 

Sherlock crooks his nose questioningly. 

“Come on. Doesn’t sound dangerous and it’s a beautiful day outside... might just be fun. It’s my birthday.“ 

“Greg, apparently John has discovered his great love for cats and doesn’t want this gruesome crime to go without justice. We’ll meet you at the Barbican in an hour. Bring coffee.“ 

He taps on his phone and puts it on the kitchen table. 

“John. You never fail to surprise me.“ 

“Well. I actually… like going back on cases with you. We should do that more often.” 

Since they told Lestrade they would meet him an hour later, the rest of the birthday breakfast goes in a bit of a hurry. While John is getting dressed, Sherlock asks Mrs Hudson to take Matilda. Then they take a cab to the Barbican. 

John actually likes that big brutalist complex in the middle of London. He has been to the cinema there once or twice. He usually got a little lost at the Barbican Centre with all the concert halls, cinemas and libraries and the residential compounds. Lestrade waits for them near the large residential towers. John smiles at Greg, who is holding a paper cup with coffee in each hand. 

“Good morning. And happy birthday, John.” 

“Ta! The coffee’s nice.” John takes a sip. 

“Thanks for coming. I know it sounds a bit weird… three dead cats.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John isn’t sure if Sherlock’s case-rating scale even has a number for dead cats. But things turn much more interesting more quickly than he would have thought. 

“Well, there were cats found dead yesterday morning in front of their owners’ flats. Strange thing is, they were laid there quite deliberately. And the cats had little notes of paper pinned to their collars. They said ‘Property of the Barbican Theatre. Please return.’“ 

Sherlock sighs. 

“Well, it’s actually not really my case, you know, Sherlock. Just took it because a colleague from the other department is on vacation and he asked me to help out. And with Donovan sick and a couple of others on vacation as well, my team looks a bit thin as well... So I thought I’d just ask. When one of our officers went to see the owners this morning, none of them opens the door. Doesn’t sound like a coincidence, does it?“ 

Sherlock casts a glimpse at John that says something like ‘This had better been worth it’, but they do get started. When they try to contact the cats’ owners once again, still none of them opens the door – and Sherlock gets a bit excited. He doesn’t wait for Greg’s explanation that they should just wait ten minutes for the rest of his team to arrive and open the doors, and picks the lock of the first flat within a minute. To find Michael Cooper, a theatre-critic, dead on his sofa. The same goes for the other two cat-owners. And, as it turns out, for two more residents of the Barbican that did not have cats but were found dead by neighbours. 

Sherlock’ excitement has turned into something bordering maniac. He rushes through the victims’ exquisitely furnished flats, murmuring something about serial killers to himself and examining things. John helps him analysing the causes of death as good as possible without a proper post-mortem (poisoned, apparently, just like the cats). Meanwhile, Anderson and the rest of Lestrade’s team arrive, but John and Sherlock are almost done at the crime scenes. 

In each of the five flats Sherlock has found a small quantity of items – clothes, small household pieces and similar things – which all had that small paper note attached to them: _Property of the Barbican Theatre. Please return._

Inquiries confirm that these pieces are, in fact, their costumes and props. The papers are attached to the props when they are being cleaned or repaired by someone who isn’t working at the theatre. Slightly old-fashioned, but the system still works. John and Sherlock hurry down from the residential towers to the Barbican Centre, to the place where the Theatre’s props are being stored. Andrew MacMillan, the props manager, a tired looking, overweight man in his fifties, is already waiting for them. 

“Some of these things haven’t been used in years. Others are deployed so frequently that I can’t tell you all the performances for which they’ve been used. To give your more detailed information, I’d have to check the computer. Get you a proper list, maybe,” MacMillan sighs. 

“I need that list. Quickly. There must be a connection,” Sherlock demands. 

“Who has access to the props and costumes?” John asks. 

“God, a whole bunch of people. Almost everybody who works behind the stage,” laments the manager. 

“How long until you’ve got the list?” 

MacMillan shrugs. “An hour, maybe a bit more. It’s quite a number of items.” 

“We should have another look at the flat of the second victim in the meantime. Anderson should be finished there by now, John.” 

MacMillan shows them out, passing offices and a number of people working there. Turning around a corner, they nearly run into a tall, slender woman. She is elegantly clad and eyes them with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. When they turn right to go to the residential towers, John can see from the corner of an eye that she still stands there, watching them. 

When they get the list of plays the items were used some time later, John looks at his watch. 

“Sherlock, I’ve got to eat something. It’s past two already and it’s been a while since breakfast. I’m starving.” 

Sherlock looks at him, obviously surprised, but he agrees on going to one of the restaurants. Especially when John persuades him that they can go through the lists there as well. They brood over the prop list. They also got a list of everybody who has participated in the plays where the items were used. When they are done comparing the two lists, they have four names that come into question. 

“These four people are connected to all the plays and all the props and costumes found in the victims’ flats. Miranda Smith, an actress, deceased in 2008. Joel Ferguson, the former set designer, retired three years ago, lives in Ireland by now. Unlikely. That leaves Mara Roussel, she used to be an actress at the Barbican from 1998 to 2002 and… apparently still works at the theatre, but in the office. And Mike Philips, another actor at the Barbican, also still living in London.“ 

“Look at the picture, Sherlock. That Roussel woman is the one we bumped into earlier, down at the theatre.” 

Barely audible, Sherlock murmurs, “The universe is rarely so lazy… she even lives at the Barbican. Let’s go and pay her a visit.” 

When they can’t find her in her office at the theatre, Sherlock and John hurry to her flat at the Lauderdale Tower. Before they enter the tower, they stop and have another look at the address. 

“Let me see,” Sherlock grumbles, leaning closely to John, “Mara Roussel, Lauderdale Tower, 17 th floor, flat 17-05, Barbican… that should be this entry then.” John can smell his aftershave, his skin and his hair, feel his breath on his cheek. His heart beats faster and his mouth goes dry. _I will never get used to this._ Sherlock’s hand rests on his back, giving him the subtlest of strokes. 

“Ah, there you are…” Greg turns around a corner and swallows the rest of his sentence, staring at them for the blink of an eye. He shakes his head and proceeds. “Been looking for you. What are you up to, then?” 

“No time, Greg. We’re looking for a suspect, she lives here.” 

“I’ll join you.” 

On the way up to the 17 th floor, Sherlock explains the results of their investigations in a rush. “I don’t know how they are connected to the victims, but they _are_ ,” he finishes. 

“Well, good that we’ve just met. I just got the identities and background details on the victims. They’re in fact all connected to the Barbican Theatre in one way or another. The first one was a theatre critic, then there are the former head of staff department, a director, another actress and a former member of the management.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he is hurrying out of the elevator, trying to find the right direction to get to Roussel’s flat. 

“Roussel was an actress, wasn’t she? And now she’s doing some other job at the Theatre… sounds odd,” John says. 

They hear a heavy door fall shut. 

“Staircase? Fire escape?” John asks immediately. 

“That way,” Sherlock nods and heads in the direction where the noise came from. They hear steps on the stairs under them and within a split second, the concrete staircase halls from their heavy tread. 

“Silent!” Sherlock hisses, “If she leaves the staircase before reaching ground floor I won’t even hear it because of all that noise you’re making!” 

Sherlock runs on, with light, long steps and John and Greg follow as quickly and silently as they can. On the eighth floor Sherlock notices that the door to the hallway and the flats is just closing. He leaves the staircase. He catches a glimpse of a shadow vanishing behind the next corner on the hallway. John is quicker than Sherlock, he passes him and manages to catch up with Roussel. She is taller than him and quick and she knows the place better than John does, but John gets hold of her finally. 

Out of breath, Greg pulls his badge. “Scotland Yard. Ms Roussel? We need to talk to you.” 

Despite being rather defeated, Mara Roussel carries herself with pride. She holds her head up high and moves with the grace of a ballet dancer when she is taken to Scotland Yard for interrogation. 

As it turns out, she actually is responsible for the dead cats and the five dead people found at the Barbican. She hasn’t even fully answered Greg’s third question when Sherlock interrupts her, firing his words like a machine gun. 

“You were an actress at the Barbican Theatre until 2002. Something must have happened that ended your career as an actress – you lost your job. Probably some intrigue behind the stage, in which all five people found dead were entangled in. You blamed them for the end of your career and over the years, this has become some kind of _idée fixe_ – that you were wronged. You sent them the props and clothes with the papers from the Barbican Theatre to intimidate them. You killed the cats to take something from them they loved, just as you had loved your job as an actress. And then you poisoned them. Am I wrong?” 

Roussel holds her breath. She lifts her head and stares at the ceiling. When she looks down at Sherlock, her eyes are filled with tears, but her voice is steady when she speaks. 

“The theatre – _this_ theatre – meant everything to me. I was part of it, I had achieved what I had always wanted. And then it didn’t take any more than a few bad reviews, a colleague who wanted my part, a director whom I refused to do a _favour_... They destroyed my life. Everything I had been working for. Everything.” 

\--- 

After the interrogation, there isn’t much left to do for John and Sherlock at the Yard. It is almost half past five and Sherlock hails a cab. 

The ride back to Baker Street doesn’t take long. They stop at their favourite Thai take-away to get something for dinner. Beforehand, John has texted Mrs Hudson to let her know they will pick Matilda in about half an hour. She replied with a smiley and a photograph of a grinning Matilda. 

“This is actually one for the blog." 

“The blog? Well, this case is far from the more sophisticated murders we have solved, but it was… surprisingly entertaining. You’ll post our cases again, then?“ 

“Yeah. Thought about that for a while. I... miss it, actually. So, yeah.“ 

Sherlock looks out of the window and smiles. 

_He likes the idea,_ John thinks. _Just like old times._

“I won’t write anything about Matilda, though. I mean, it’s not exactly a secret we’re having a daughter, but let’s keep her out of that. Might be better.“ 

“You are right. So. What will you call this one then? The Barbican cats mystery? The venomous lodger?“ 

“I don’t know. The fucking amazing birthday, maybe,“ John growls, bending over to Sherlock and kissing him, hard. 

A few minutes later, the cab arrives at Baker Street and they knock at Mrs Hudson’s door. 

“There they are, Matilda, look,“ hums Mrs Hudson as she opens the door. Matilda happily waves her arms at her fathers, squeaking with laughter. 

“Oh, come here, sweetheart,“ John takes her on his arm. 

“Everything went fine, Mrs Hudson?“ 

“Absolutely, John. She is a little angel. We went to the park and fed the ducks. And she slept a little this afternoon. We’ve had a lovely day.“ 

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,“ Sherlock intervenes with a hint of impatience in his voice. He kisses Matilda on her blonde hair and adds, “Let’s go upstairs. Dinner is getting cold.“ 

John briefly wonders since when Sherlock cared about dinner, but he waves Mrs Hudson good-bye and follows him nonetheless. Matilda sits on John’s lap when they have their Thai and tries to grab some fried noodles from his plate. 

“Oi! Now I’ve got to defend my food against two people! That’s not fair, you know, Matilda?“ 

But Matilda and Sherlock just laugh at him companionably. Later on, when Matilda’s excitement turns into exhaustion and her laughter into tired sobs, John ‘reads’ one of her favourite picture books to her. She sits curled in his lap, leaning against his chest, and only rarely pointing at them. John feels the warmth of her little body, hears her little breaths and watches how sleep is about to conquer her mind. He takes her to bed while Sherlock has a shower. Matilda is asleep within ten minutes and John finds Sherlock in his own bedroom. 

The sight of him makes John’s stomach flip a little, he isn’t really getting used to how beautiful Sherlock is. He sits in the middle of the bed, naked except for a sheet draped around his hips, bent over his laptop. 

“Just writing an e-mail to Lestrade, there are a few things he should bear in mind when doing the paperwork for the Barbican case.“ 

John clears his throat, trying to get back to a more composed state. “Sure.“ 

“Shower is yours, John.“ 

“Yeah. Sure. Shower. Sounds fine.“ 

John does neither gets the image of Sherlock’s dark curls against his white skin out of his mind nor that of his broad shoulders and his narrow hips. And very definitely he cannot stop thinking about how very naked he probably is under that sheet. The post-case adrenaline high catches up with him, he has been hard ever since he stepped into Sherlock’s bedroom. And he has very clear ideas about how to spend the rest of his birthday. 

Sherlock is still typing when he gets back into the bedroom. He doesn’t look up when John sits down behind him, naked, spreading his legs around Sherlock, until his cock rests against the small of his back. He kisses Sherlock’s back, sucks the skin over his spine and Sherlock shudders. He closes the laptop and leans into John’s touch. 

John starts touching Sherlock’s nipples, gently twisting them until they go hard and Sherlock sighs. Then he cups Sherlock’s face with his right hand. He touches Sherlock’s plush lips, half-pushing, half-sliding his fingers into his mouth. When he wraps his left hand around Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock groans and sucks at John’s fingers. John starts stroking him, not quickly, but not tentatively, either. The thrill of the case has the same effect on Sherlock as it has on John, within a few minutes he is panting. He frees his long legs from the sheets and turns around to John, kneeling in front of him. 

_God, what a sight. This should be illegal._ Sherlock’s hair is messy, his eyes half-closed, his cheeks slightly flushed with arousal and his lips... John can’t possibly think of his red, obscenely gorgeous lips without getting even harder than he already is. Sherlock’s cock is flushed against his slim stomach, a nuance darker than the rest of his body, elegantly curved. And _oh my fucking God_ the absolutely most breath-taking cock John could ever imagine. 

“What is it that you want, John?“ 

Sherlock’s voice is low, rasping in his chest, full of need. 

“I want to fuck you, Sherlock. I _am going_ to fuck you,“ John replies with all the self-control he can muster. 

Sherlock props propping his hands on John’s thighs and kisses him. Infinitely slowly and after a few delicious moments increasingly... filthy. John moans and Sherlock growls into the kiss, “I absolutely _insist_ on that.“ 

Without breaking the kiss, he changes from kneeling to sitting to half-lying on his back. John follows him, never letting go of Sherlock’s lips and body. When Sherlock is draped half across the bed, John blindly grabs the lube from his nightstand, uncaps it and is about the pour some of it on his hand. But Sherlock takes it, takes it on his hands instead and whispers, “And I insist on doing this myself. I want you to watch me.“ 

John is surprised and aroused and _curious_ , he sits back on his feet and watches. He watches Sherlock, stretched out on his back in front of him, his legs spread wide. Sherlock’s right hand is gently stroking his cock. Two of his impossibly long fingers are circling his anus, spreading the lube over the sensitive, darker skin. With a moan he pushes them inside, moving slowly. 

“Oh fuck,“ Sherlock whispers after a minute with a high-pitched voice, and John can tell he has brushed his prostate. Sherlock starts moving his hips, carefully thrusting against his fingers. He is biting his lower lip and smearing precome from the head over the length of his cock. 

John has to remind himself to breathe. Sherlock fucking himself with his fingers, panting, sweating and moaning, makes him almost abandon his plan and just get off while watching him. John has never seen anything this arousing before, and he isn’t sure how long he will be able to witness his lover doing this without coming himself. 

Sherlock pushes in a third finger, moaning a low “Oh...“, then moves his hips in luxurious, rolling moves a few times and opens his eyes. 

“Fuck me already, John,“ he breathes and John thinks he is about to lose his mind from the way his voice sounds. 

John carefully pushes into Sherlock, but he can’t, he can’t go slowly and gently, not after watching _this_. He is out of breath before he even starts moving in earnest. But Sherlock is indeed well-prepared and when he starts rocking in hips against John’s cock, John stops thinking. 

He moves, aligning his breath with the motion of his body. He lets his cock go deep inside Sherlock with every thrust of his hips, and almost slide out again with every move backwards, making Sherlock gasp for air and dig his fingernails into John’s hips. He fucks Sherlock steadily for a small eternity, watching him, until he needs to speed up, _oh God_. He sees Sherlock’s lips form a perfect ‘o’, feels his balls tighten up and pumping and Sherlock comes and comes. 

The pleasure that has been building up inside John to an almost unbearable amount finally washes over him. He thrusts into Sherlock until he is completely spent and bordering over-sensitive. With a breathless shiver he sinks down on his elbows and on Sherlock’s chest. 

He wants to say something, but his lips are numb, so he just kisses Sherlock’s skin, moist with sweat. Sherlock’s fingers comb through his hair, caressing his head. 

He has to swallow twice before he can speak again. 

“Oh my God, Sherlock. That was... amazing.“ 

Sherlock chuckles. 

“It was.“ 

They lie there for a few more minutes, then John tries if his blood circulation is back online enough so he can go to the bathroom and clean himself up a bit. When he returns to their bed, he kisses Sherlock’s forehead and whispers, “That was by far the best birthday I’ve ever had.“ 

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. 

“Birthday,“ he mumbles, gracefully slides out of bed, shuffles into the bathroom. After a few minutes, John can hear him walk around in the flat. When Sherlock comes back, still looking adorably ruffled, he has got three presents on his arm and their landline phone in his hand. 

“Almost forgot about those. It was such a hurry this morning. Happy birthday again, John.“ 

Sherlock sits down at the edge of bed and hands John his gifts. John unwraps the first one, it is flat and rectangular, but too light for a book. 

“Oh! The picture Greg has taken of the three of us at the yard. It… actually looks quite lovely.” 

“Thought you might like it. Something for the mantelpiece or so.” 

“Thanks, Sherlock.” 

The second one isn’t very heavy either, but bulkier. John grins as he tears the paper away. 

“Aaaah, you still want to do movie nights with me then. And there might actually be some Bond films we haven’t watched yet.” 

He scans through the DVD collection of Bond movies, smiling. The last present is just an envelope. Opening it, he finds two tickets for a rugby match. 

“Quins versus Maori All Blacks at Twickenham? That sounds… pretty good! I haven’t been to a match in ages!” 

“Yes, Harry told me so. And that you always wanted to watch a really big rugby match when you were little.” 

The thought of Sherlock and Harry conspiring over John’s birthday present makes him grin even more. He leans towards Sherlock, cups his face and kisses him. 

“Thanks. That’s great. It was a great day.” 

“Well, you know, I had something planned actually…” 

“Oh? Did I ruin your plans then?” 

“No. The case was perfect. But I had asked Mrs Hudson to look after Matilda, so we could just… hang around, watch some of Bond movies, order in… like we did before.” 

“Except that now we have sex.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs, “except for the sex. That’s a pretty good addition, actually. And I was planning on that as well.” 

His grin turns into a yawn. 

“What about the phone?” 

“Oh.” Sherlock hands it over to John. “Message.” 

Hardly anyone still calls them on their landline phone, since the mobiles are so much more convenient. John isn’t surprised to hear that the message is from Sherlock’s mother. 

_“Hello John, happy birthday. I hope you’re having a great day, dear. Marcus and I wanted to invite you to our place for a weekend in August. The weather should be just lovely and I guess all three of you could do with a short vacation. I’m sure Matilda will love the beach. Just give us a call! And give a kiss to Sherlock, will you? Bye-bye!”_

“Hey. That sounds nice. What do you think, Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock has crawled to his side of the bed and closed his eyes. 

“A few days at your parents’? Beach? Vacation?” 

“Talk about that tomorrow. Time to sleep.” 

John puts the presents and the phone on his nightstand. Then Sherlock wraps his arms around his still naked torso and doesn’t seem to have any intention of ever letting him go again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I neither have any idea about how things work at a theatre in general nor especially at the Barbican Theatre. Once more, I took the freedom to make this whole thing about the attached papers as well as the props manager etc. up. If you have any complaints, just let me know.


	22. Chapter 22

The next day, John wakes up when his phone pings with a text. 

_Hey, John. Fancy a drink tonight? We didn’t have one yesterday and it was your birthday after all. –Greg._

They used to do this together quite regularly before Sherlock jumped and also when John was living at Baker Street after Sherlock was shot. John already thought about having a pint with Greg a couple of times since he had moved back in with Sherlock. Sherlock can handle Matilda on his own for an evening, after all. 

_Sure. Seven at the pub? – John_

_Sounds great. See you later!_

\--- 

It is Friday night, the pub is already crowded when they get there. They find two seats at the bar and Greg orders two pints. The beer tastes great on this warm evening, cool and a little bitter. 

“So. Did you have a nice birthday?” 

“It was marvellous. I think I might go on cases more often. At least small ones, every now and then. Might even get back to blogging.” 

“Really? What you’re doing with the little one, then? When you’re on cases?” 

“Mrs Hudson loves spending time with her. Works perfectly so far.” 

“That’s fine. Looking forward to having you back from time to time, really.” 

They talk about a couple of other things – the latest gossip from the Yard, a few new colleagues of Greg’s, Matilda and the rugby match on tv. John orders another pint for each of them. They both drink and _finally,_ Greg asks. 

“John, mate, did I, er, get that right? Yesterday?" 

“Get what right?“ 

John knows exactly what Greg is talking about, but somehow he enjoys not being the one feeling awkward in an awkward situation. 

“You and Sherlock. You’re… together, aren’t you?“ 

“Yes, we are.“ 

John smiles. He realizes he is proud of them. _Never thought that coming out would feel so easy._

“Bloody hell. I knew it.“ 

“Knew what?“ 

“That you’d make it there one day.“ 

John is a bit baffled. 

“Oh. Did you?” 

“Well… you’ve been pining for each other for ages.” 

John wants to contradict, but somehow he doesn’t know what to say and before he can figure out a good reply, Greg interrupts his thoughts. 

“You look quite happy.” 

_God, am I so obvious?_

“Yeah. I mean, I really am. Pretty great, all of it.” 

“He is quite good at handling Matilda, isn’t he? And he’s changed, quite a bit.” 

“He’s amazing, actually. I have no idea what I’d do without him.” 

“Mate, this is so good to hear.” 

Greg sighs, pads John’s shoulder and takes a sip from his pint. 

“And you, Greg? Not so well, I take it?” 

“Nope. We’re having a divorce. Laura has moved out a month ago.” 

“God, I’m sorry.” 

“Well. It’s the second marriage breaking apart… I’m working too much, I know. But I guess I’m just really done with all that now. Women.” 

Greg laughs, sounding quite desperate. 

“Maybe I should try blokes next time, too. Can’t turn out to be any worse than this, really.” 

\--- 

When John gets back from the pub, possibly a little drunk, he finds Sherlock in the living room, typing on his laptop. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Matilda’s asleep?” 

“Yep. She fell asleep at half past eight, everything’s fine.” 

John takes off his coat and sits down in his chair. 

“Drink?” Sherlock asks without looking up. 

“Ah, just a water, maybe. Really don’t want to get a hangover.” 

“Kitchen.” Sherlock doesn’t show the slightest inclination of getting up. 

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re too kind,” John finally sighs when he gets a glass of water himself. When John sits down in his chair again, Sherlock casually says, “So. Three-continents-Watson.“ 

John puts the glass on the table. 

“Sherlock, where did you get _that_ from?“ 

“I tend to be very resourceful, you know that,“ Sherlock replies, looking completely earnest. 

John rubs a hand over his face, looks at the ceiling, and sighs. He hates himself for being so tipsy right now, he would rather have a clear mind for a conversation like this. _Still_ _better set things straight right now._

“Goodness, it was back in Kabul, when I had just arrived there, it was _years ago, really –_ there was a documentary about doctors in Afghanistan being filmed... And there were a Canadian doctor, an Australian journalist and a French UN employee... Things got a little heated up. I’ve just had sex with three women in unusual quick succession. That’s it. The Kabubble.“ 

“Not in quick succession.“ 

_Oh God, Sherlock, don’t tell me-_

“You’ve had the journalist and the doctor _at once_ , John. That was a _threesome_.“ 

John’s face goes blank. Then he stares at the table, at the glass in front of him. 

“God, fuck, Sherlock, yes. I mean.... Sherlock, I was _a lot_ younger than today and maybe I _was_ seeking for adventure... Christ, I’m sorry. You know it doesn’t mean anything...?“ 

Sherlock manages to keep his façade for a couple of moments, then he can’t keep his mouth from curling. 

“Oh no, not again. Sherlock. You tosser. You giant wanker. If you ever make fun of _me_ being worried about _your_ feelings again...“ 

“And – several times. Not just once.“ 

“Oh. Shut. It. Now. Sherlock.“ 

Sherlock giggles. 

“Let’s go to bed, John. I’ve missed you.” 


	23. Chapter 23

They decide to spend a few days at the Holmes’s house at the end of August. Sherlock rents a car, they pack their things and get ready for a small vacation. Matilda isn’t used to driving longer than the usual cab ride in London would take. When they have just made it halfway down the M23, she wakes up and is very annoyed with still being driven around in a car. John ends up sitting next to her, diverting her as well as he can and hoping there will be no traffic jam or other delays. After one more endless hour, they arrive at Sherlock’s parents. Sherlock is trying to find a place to park the car, but there are a number of craftsmen’s vans parking on the street. The house of the Holmes’s neighbours’ is obviously being renovated. 

“Next time, we’ll take the train, Sherlock,” John says while undoing Matilda’s safety belt. Sherlock has opened the door next to Matilda and lifts her out of her seat. She makes a gurgling noise and spills half of this morning’s baby food over Sherlock’s chest. 

“Maybe… you’re right,” Sherlock sighs, exasperated. 

The front door opens and Sherlock’s parents hurry to the car. They haven’t met Matilda yet and the excitement is written over their faces. 

“Sherlock! There you are!” Mrs Holmes smiles and beams at Matilda. 

“Hello, Matilda! Oh, you’re so lovely! And so big! Oh, just look at these blonde curls,” she exclaims, and then she sees her son covered in baby vomit. 

“Well, nothing ever changes, does it? Babies still don’t like car rides? Why didn’t you take the train? We could have picked you up at the station, Sherlock.” 

“Yes, mummy, I get it. Hello.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, obviously hating being proven wrong twice within thirty seconds. “What is happening there, mum? It’s nearly impossible to find a place to park the car.” 

“Yes, Mrs Robinson died and the house was sold. It’s being completely renovated, they’ve been working on it for weeks and weeks. All that noise, Sherlock, I can tell you… Oh, there’s John! Hello, dear.” 

“Hello, Margaret,” John says while searching one of their bags for something to clean up the mess with. 

Ten minutes later, both Matilda and Sherlock are wearing clean clothes, their bags are stored in Sherlock’s old bedroom and Marcus Holmes is preparing some tea. Margaret is delighted to see how much Matilda loves Bee. 

“So, have a cup of tea. John, would you like some biscuits?” Marcus asks when he takes the tea tray to the garden table. 

“Yeah, I’d love some. Thanks.” 

The summer sun warms their faces and Matilda crawls over the lawn. John takes a sip from his tea and has some of the biscuits. There is a little small talk, a little getting used to each other again after eight months of not seeing each other and a little adjusting to these significantly new circumstances. 

John thinks he might be able to start enjoying himself soon when he suddenly feels drawn out of the situation, watching it like the audience of a theatre play. _So fucking idyllic,_ he thinks, _the sun and the garden and grandparents and my boyfriend (lover? Partner?) and my daughter. And, God, at Christmas it all looked so very different._

He gets angry at himself, he should be _enjoying_ this. He has every reason to be happy. This is so much better than the perspective he had at Christmas. This is what he _wants_. But the anger boiling inside him adds a bitter note to all of this. He doesn’t know how to participate in the conversation any more. He is even too tired to look after Matilda. After a while, he gets up and murmurs something like _Be back in a second_. He walks up the stairs and closes the door of Sherlock’s old bedroom behind him. It looks like most bedrooms where children have moved out long ago, but the room never got a new purpose: A mixture of children and teenager things, furniture left behind, stuff just stored for some time _later_. A place to sleep, to come back to, but not to live. They have squeezed their bags amidst Sherlock’s things from a lifetime ago. 

John sits down on the queen-sized bed, vaguely wondering why a teenager had such a large bed after all. He inhales deeply, trying to calm down and to figure out what is causing that much of a turmoil inside him. 

There are steps on the hallway are approaching the room and John can tell it is Sherlock. 

“John, are you ok? You haven’t been talking very much,” Sherlock says when he has closed the door behind him, leaning against it. 

“No. No, I didn’t. Got a little lost in thought, I guess.” John looks at Sherlock and clears his throat. “It’s just...” He sighs, lost for the right words to explain what is going on. 

“Mary. The last time you were here.” 

John rubs a hand over his face. 

“Yeah. Just got a little overwhelmed. I mean, I know it’s all completely different now. And it’s so much... better, really, Sherlock.” He pauses. “I don’t know why this getting to me like this. Sorry, I... I really don’t mean to bother you with that.” 

“Why not? Bother me. I care about you, John.” 

John swallows. It is exactly these things he never would have expected from Sherlock – or at least, he never would have expected him to put it into words. Usually it is himself who cares about others, both professionally and in relationships. He is still adjusting to this. He doesn’t quite know how to handle it. Being cared for. 

Sherlock takes two steps towards him and touches his arm. He gives him a gentle press and kisses his temple. 

“Take your time, John,” Sherlock whispers. “I’ll be downstairs and try to make sure my parents don’t feed Matilda chocolate biscuits.” 

Sherlock leaves without another word. 

_Mary._ John does his best not to think of her – he tried to forgive her, he really did. Out of a sense of duty and obligation. Because of their child. And because he had thought that if he managed to make their relationship work again, all of that mess they had been through the past year might have made sense. He could see now how much he had been lying to himself. When Mycroft had finally found out about the extent of assassinations she had been involved in and was forced to act upon that, John was glad that someone else made a decision for him and put an end to that farce. And after a while, sometime between moving back to Baker Street and now, disappointment, hurt and anger hit him with full force. It was still too much to really look at. He feels so much like a fool thinking back of that last time they were here. 

He inhales. And exhales. Trying to let go. He stays in the bedroom for a small while. He hears laughter from the garden through the open window. He just stares at nothing. At the sky, until his eyes hurt. At the pattern of the wallpaper. At the backs of the books on the shelf, without reading their titles. 

He manages to calm down and things feel better after a while. John goes back downstairs, able to smile again, and tries to focus on what is happening now. He talks a bit with Sherlock’s dad, who seems to be very aware that something might be going on inside John. 

And for the first time he feels like he is being treated very much like a... son-in-law, like a new family member. Margaret and Marcus radiate pride and joy to an extent that makes it difficult for John to delve into dark thoughts and questions. They are so happy being around Matilda - and it absolutely doesn’t seem to matter to them that she isn’t Sherlock’s biological daughter. Or that all of this is still _damn new_. 

And John feels how happy they are about _him_. He has to think of what Mycroft told him about Redbeard and Victor, about the drugs and everything about Sherlock’s withdrawing. 

That night, when Sherlock puts Matilda to bed and he helps Margaret laying the table in the garden for dinner, she stops what she is doing and smiles at him. 

“John, you have to know that we’re very glad about you.” 

“Well. I’m, you know, quite glad myself about the way things are between Sherlock and me.” 

“Ever since Sherlock got to know you he has been a bit happier, a bit more balanced. I mean, he is still rude and doesn’t call, but he was… better. You can tell as a parent.” 

John doesn’t quite know what to say. He raises his eyebrows in a slightly helpless smile. 

“It’s ok, dear.” She pats his arm and hands him a few plates. “Just felt like saying. Let’s go and put these things on the garden table, ok?” 

\--- 

After they have had dinner and a few glasses of wine, John feels horribly tired. They are still sitting outside, the starry summer night is being illuminated by a number of candles on the table. Actually and a bit surprisingly after the situation in the afternoon, it is a very nice evening. John has lost track of Sherlock and his dad's discussion about science. Margaret has asked him about his work in Afghanistan. She was quite open and he liked that. Better than beating around the bush. But now, his limbs heavy with the wine and his head spinning from the day, he gets up and says, “It’s been lovely, but I really need to sleep. Good night.” 

“Coming in a minute, John,” Sherlock replies. 

Sherlock’s minute might rather be three quarters of an hour, but John takes this as a sign that he is at ease with his parents and just enjoying their chat. When Sherlock finally enters the bedroom, John has almost fallen asleep with his book on his chest. 

“Hey Sherlock,” he mumbles, his voice sleepy. He watches him undress, his skin being exposed in the shade. Before putting on his sleeping shirt, Sherlock bows down and draws him into a long kiss, faintly tasting of tooth paste. John sighs. “Bit tired for sex, though.” 

“Bit close to my parents’ bedroom, too.” 

“So we’ll just sleep?” 

“As long as we can manage that, yes.” 

\--- 

“Sherlock, why don’t you go to the beach today? The weather is just lovely,” Margaret suggests during breakfast the next morning. 

Sherlock takes another bite from his toast and another sip of coffee before he replies hesitantly, “Well. Maybe. What do you think, John?” 

“Sounds nice. We could go after breakfast and see how we like it there.” 

And so they do. John packs a bag with towels, sun blocker, something to eat and to drink. He takes his swimming trunks, too, but he can’t find Sherlock’s – _did he bring them at all? Does he actually have any?_ – and takes the bag and Matilda to the car. When he has just put Matilda in her seat and put on the safety belts, he hears Sherlock opening the driver’s door and the rustling of the car keys. 

“Hey. There you are, Sherlock.” 

It takes him a moment and he just fully realizes when he sits down next to him in the front: Sherlock looks quite unusual. He is wearing a pair of shorts and a shirt which John has never seen him in before. The shirt is less tight and a bit more casual than his usual ones. It looks well worn and washed. _Maybe one of his old ones, that was still at his parents. Just like the shorts._ It actually suits him, it’s less stylish, but nice and relaxed. When Sherlock gets a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and puts them on just before starting the engine, John is sure this has to be a holiday and smiles to himself. 

They arrive at the beach after a short ride along a small winding road through green meadows. John isn’t sure that this place really exists within a two hour ride from London – it feels like a different world. It’s calm, there are no people around, no houses, no cars. He lays their towels on the sand and Sherlock puts down Matilda and her little bucket on one of them. John opens the sunshade and puts it up. Then he just lets himself fall into the warm sand. He lies on his back, eyes closed, and feels the sun on his face. Despite the fact that he has only been awake for less than two hours, he feels a gentle tiredness creeping up from inside. 

“Sherlock. I’m not going to move for the next 30 minutes.” 

“Do that. Don’t fall asleep. I’d rather not have you get a sunstroke.” 

John listens to the sound of waves rolling onto the shore, the doves’ cries and Sherlock’s and Matilda’s talking. He does doze off after a few calm minutes. When he wakes up, feeling slightly sweaty and the sand much less comfortable, but hard and pressing into his bad shoulder, he stretches. He doesn’t want to get up just yet, so he stretches out his arms and legs and moves them through the sand a few times. After that, he does finally rise to his feet and looks at the angel he has made into the sand with childish satisfaction. He rubs his hand over his hair a few times to get rid of the sand. Sherlock sits a few steps away, sleeves rolled up, barefoot, and has modelled little towers on the sandy beach. He steps closer and has a look. 

“This is the Gherkin. And the Shard. There’s the Walkie-Talkie and... St Paul’s. And St Bart’s,” Sherlock offers. 

“And these are the Thames and a miniature City Hall then?” 

“Yep. Here’s Tate Modern.” 

“And that?” 

“Globe, obviously.” 

“You miss London, Sherlock?” 

“Why?” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. 

John shrugs and huffs a laugh. “I love you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looks up, caught by surprise. “Love you, too, John. Immeasurably so.” 

Matilda makes a noise that sounds both helpless and annoyed, and then chokes and coughs. 

“Christ, Matilda, stop that.” Her mouth and her small fists are full of sand. Sherlock abandons his sand castle model of London and hands John a bottle of water. It takes some minutes of John’s thorough cleaning and rinsing and Matilda spills a few tears, but then all the sand is gone from her mouth. She casts a look full of disappointment and indignation at John, struggles to get away from his lap and crawls to Sherlock. When she has spotted all of his sand towers, streets and bridges, she screams with joy, slumps her hands at it and crawls through the heart of sandy London like an infant Godzilla. Sherlock sighs and raises his eyebrows. “Well. All lives end. All hearts are broken.” 

“Quoting Mycroft again? Don’t give her any stupid ideas, Sherlock.” 

John takes off his shirt and shorts and changes into his swimming trunks. 

“Hey. Fancy a swim?” 

Sherlock is still looking at the mess Matilda has made as if trying to figure out a particularly challenging problem. 

“Well, maybe just a little floundering about in the water,” John adds. 

“Hmmmm... No. I’ll just stay here. You go. I can look after Matilda.” 

“I thought I’d take her to the water. Maybe she likes it.” 

Matilda loves it. John takes her on his arm and walks a few steps into the waves, until the water reaches up to his belly and her feet get wet. She looks a little intimidated, yet curious. 

“That’s the sea, love. It’s a bit cold, isn’t it?” 

Matilda kicks at the water. John walks in a little further. When Matilda can touch the water with her hands, he holds her carefully and tightly and lets her play. Suddenly he is very, very aware of her small body against his naked chest. He kisses her head while she splashes in the water, too fascinated to really notice her dad’s caresses. Standing there in the sea, holding her, he thinks, _She is so dependent on us. She still needs us so much to take care of her, to survive._ He feels the responsibility, but it isn’t intimidating anymore. It is a duty he has grown into since she was born.He looks to the beach, at Sherlock who is sitting there, watching them or looking at the sea. John would have liked to share this moment with him and he wonders if Sherlock liked swimming when he was still living at his parents. He can’t quite put the finger on it, but he has a feeling that something is holding Sherlock back from swimming. He has never shown any interest in being outdoors or doing sports, but… well, it is just a feeling. Matilda clings to his chest, she coughs, she must have swallowed some of the salty water. 

“Hey, everything ok? Go back to pa?” 

But she goes on splashing the water as if she has to fulfil some immensely important task. 

Having her tucked to his chest, he sees the scar tissue on his own shoulder touch her immaculate, white-rosy baby skin. He doesn’t feel very comfortable undressing in public and tries to avoid it whenever possible. He doesn’t like the stares or the unspoken questions. 

_Christ, it must be so much worse for Sherlock. Having that bullet scar on his sternum and his whole back covered with scars._

\--- 

That night, when Sherlock undresses in his bedroom and crawls into bed, John touches his back. 

“Sherlock? Today at the beach… did you. Well. Feel uncomfortable about your scars?” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply for a while. John is already expecting a sniding retort in typical Sherlockian manner, but finally Sherlock just says, “Yes.” 

“They’ll fade, eventually.” 

“Probably.” 

“There are hardly any people around at the beach.” John rolls on his side, facing Sherlock. “Anyway, I know what it feels like.” 

Carrying the traces of brutality, torture and trauma on your skin is a difficult thing. It is different from having a scar caused by an accident. Or by a medical treatment of some kind, and these are bad enough, in most cases. It was also different in the army. The men wounded and scarred there knew what kind of stories lurked behind the scars, there was no horror in their eyes when they saw them. No questions. But civilians or people unaccustomed to the brutality of combat and war – and, after all, what Sherlock must have been through, was nothing less – can hardly ever handle that sight. 

“I know,” Sherlock says with a low voice. Slowly, he turns around to John. “You know everything there is to know about this.” And then there is one of the rare moments when Sherlock lets go of all of his protective mechanisms, when he gives up trying to be strong and in control. He crawls closer to John, buries his head on his scarred shoulder and just rests there. Until he falls asleep. Letting himself be held and protected. 

\--- 

They go to the beach again the next day. Just as the day before, it is deserted, they are the only ones around. And without having spoken about it, Sherlock takes off his clothes and changes into a pair of black swimming trunks. When they walk into the water, Sherlock carries Matilda. She obviously knows what is about to come and babbles happily. Sherlock and Matilda play in the water and John swims a bit. He can see Matilda splashing Sherlock’s face with water and he hears Sherlock’s voice telling her to stop. Their talking and laughter is being carried away by the wind. Sherlock moves in the sea with both elegance and sureness. He even starts lifting Matilda off the water, throwing her up in the air a little and catching her when she drops back on his arms. She likes it and John likes watching them. He swims back to the two of them. 

“Having fun?” 

“Very much.” Sherlock is slightly out of breath. 

“You’ve been swimming a lot as a kid?” 

“Spent whole summers at this beach.” 

“With Mycroft?” 

“Yes. And Redbeard. And my dad.” 

“Did Mycroft go swimming?” John can’t help but imagine a pale teenage Mycroft with a bad sunburn. 

“Yes, I made him. Threatened to throw his books into the sea otherwise.” 

“Sounds fun.” 

“Yep. And you?” 

“We’ve been to Weston-super-Mare a couple of times, but it wasn’t as beautiful as it is here.” 

Later on, Sherlock goes swimming a bit as well and despite his smoking and his complete abstinence from most physical activities, John can tell that he is quite a good swimmer. He likes seeing his fair skin in the waves and his long arms digging into the water. When Matilda’s lips turn slightly purple, he carries her back to the sunshade, dries her with a towel and hands her her little bottle with water. She cuddles into his arms and drinks greedily, tired from playing in the water. She is asleep within a few minutes. John feels wonderfully lazy and is already dozing off when a spray of cool water drops hits him on his belly. Sherlock has come back from the sea and kisses his chest, water dripping from his curls. 

“God, Sherlock, you’re cold!” 

“Yes, and I intend to warm myself up.” 

“Christ, do take a towel and not me.” 

“But you feel so much better.” 

“Maybe we can come back this later tonight…” 

They kiss, Sherlock’s face still wet and John tastes the sea in his mouth. Just before John’s breath is definitely starting to sound ragged, Sherlock pulls back, licking his lips. 

“We should ask my parents to look after Matilda tonight and I’ll take you out on a proper date. There are some nice restaurants around.” 

“Proper date? Without Matilda? Have we _ever_ done that?” 

“Nope. It’s about time.” 

\--- 

Sherlock comes downstairs after having had a shower, wearing a very slim cut, dark blue shirt. When he moves his arms, it stretches over his chest, carving out his pectorals and looking absolutely dizzying and breathtaking. John’s mouth goes a little dry at the sight of him. 

“Don’t you think that shirt is just a bit too tight, Sherlock? You really need a bigger one, dear,” Margaret points out, looking at him sceptically. 

“Then isn’t it good I’m not taking _you_ out for dinner tonight but my boyfriend.” 

John licks his lips and feels a blush rising on his face. He quickly looks at Matilda again who is currently very busy playing with Sherlock’s dad and some bricks. He was just about to say good-bye to her and kisses her forehead once more, reluctant to tear himself away from her. 

“John, come on, it’s not like we have never been away without her,” Sherlock says, dragging him gently to the door. John clears his throat. “Right. Thanks, Marcus, Margaret. If anything happens, just call, ok?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, John, come on.” Sherlock sounds impatient. “They managed to bring me up, they will be able to handle our daughter. Bye, mum. Bye, dad. Don’t wait for us.” 

“Have a nice evening, you two. Bye!” Margaret calls while the front door falls shut behind them. 

John looks at Sherlock questioningly. “’Don’t wait for us?’ I thought we were just going out for dinner?” 

“Oh, we are.” 

Sherlock takes his hand, he is obviously in a good mood. They walk down the street (“The restaurant is just a few minutes away, even in London I wouldn’t bother hailing a cab, John”). It is still very warm. Sherlock tells him bits and pieces about his childhood. How he learned to ride a bike on this street and how Mycroft once broke his arm just around this corner when they had snow one Christmas holiday. 

After a ten minute walk they arrive at a restaurant. It is small and they find a table nearby one of the windows. It smells delicious and John spots a number of seafood dishes on the menu. After they have ordered, the elderly waitress comes back, puts a candle on the white table cloth and lights it. “Just thought I’d get you a candle. More romantic that way, isn’t it?” 

John and Sherlock grin at each other. 

“So. Proper date then, Sherlock.” 

“Always thought you were the type for that.” 

John’s smile becomes a hint more predatory. 

“Oh. Did you?” 

“Sure. And I always tried to do…” Sherlock looks at him pointedly, “my _very best_.” 

John swallows, and Sherlock continues, “To accomplish that whole _Two people who like each other go out and have fun_ -thing.” 

“Yeah, you did quite spoil me. Back then. With cases and everything.” 

“Impress you, too. I mean, I tried.” 

“You certainly do now.” 

Sherlock smirks. “Do I? Tell me?” 

“You are flirting with me. Genuinely flirting. Not for a case. I might get… used to that. It’s quite flattering, actually.” 

Sherlock’s mouth curls in an unreadable smile. They are interrupted by the waitress bringing their food. They start eating and the food is delicious. Sherlock takes one of John’s mussels on his fork and eats it, humming with delight. Sherlock has always stolen food from John’s plate and John has always taken it as a sign of their intimacy. Sherlock doesn’t even try to hide it anymore and John doesn’t bother. Since Sherlock has quite an outstanding taste in food, John now steals from his plate as well. So they have come to sharing their meals like this. After a while, Sherlock takes a sip from his white wine and adds, “I might want to spoil you a bit more later on… or,” his voice turns a little rough, “in fact, I need to.” 

Ever since they started having sex about one and a half months ago, it has been like that – wanting and needing always equaled giving and pleasing. 

“What a lucky fool I am.” John sips at his wine as well. “But how… and where? Your parents are still a bit close, aren’t they?” 

Sherlock turns the glass in his hand, watching the pale-golden fluid move inside. Then he looks up at John and his eyes are piercing him. “I have taken care of that.” 

When they have finished dessert, Sherlock pays and they step out of the restaurant. John feels light-headed with the wine and Sherlock’s hints at _spoiling him_ later on. The air is a bit chillier than before and heavy with summer night’s scents and the chirping of crickets. The breeze carries laughter from a few streets away to them. 

When they have been walking for a few minutes, John realizes that they must be taking a different way home. 

“Are we going anywhere, Sherlock?” 

“No, not really. Just walking. Thought we could have a stroll along the main street of the town. Enjoying the night.” 

They are walking up a little alleyway leading up to what must be town centre, between old brick and tudor style house. 

“You really grew up here?” 

“Yep.” 

“Never really thought you could even _exist_ somewhere outside London.” 

“As soon as I found out about London, living here was nothing more than mere existing. The first time I went to London must have been when Mycroft went to boarding school…” 

Sherlock trails off. Three men have turned into the alleyway, swaying drunkenly as they walk towards them. The men have a close look at John and Sherlock while passing them. They have brutal faces, the kind of look John recognizes from his father’s booze buddies. He can smell the beer they drank. One of them stares at Sherlock just a moment too long and John can see from the corner of his eye that Sherlock notices it, too, and John feels Sherlock’s body tensing very slightly. 

“Holmes!” 

Sherlock stops and turns slowly. The men are just a few feet behind them. 

“Holmes! Took me a minute to recognize that posh, arrogant face of yours. Is that your little boyfriend there?” 

The man’s voice is slurring. John clenches his fist in the pocket of his trousers. 

“Come on, John, it’s really not worth it.” 

John is about to turn and follow Sherlock, who is walking on. 

“Holmes! Always knew you’d take it up the arse, you giant poof.” 

John straightens his body and inhales. “Ok, that’s enough.” 

“John, he isn’t worth bruising your knuckles when you punch him. I mean... look at him.” 

_Oh no._ John knows what is coming and somehow he thinks this is _not_ a good idea. 

“Matt Evans. Lost his job a year ago, he is an alcoholic and he so _knows_ how all the Polish immigrants are stealing our jobs. Not to mention that his wife – Gemma, I guess? – cheats on him with his brother.” 

The face of the man who insulted Sherlock turns to an unhealthy shade of red. He hisses through gritted teeth, “Joey?” 

“No, Evans. Mike. The _fat_ one.” 

Evans, obviously even hungrier for a fight now, takes a few steps towards Sherlock, who still looks rather bored, apparently having been through a number of situations like this. 

“How dare you…,” Evans spits out. He suddenly has a knife in his hand and his posture tells how determined he is to use it. His friends are circling closer. John can hear people talking and laughing, probably standing outside a pub and having a beer, just around the corner of the street. 

Evans comes even closer and John knows he has to react now. With a quick move, he punches him down. Evans stumbles, then catches himself and fights back. He is heavier than John, but less fit. And rather used to pub brawls than trained in combat. John parries a few ill-aimed punches. When Evans goes down on the floor, he is cursing under his breath and spitting blood. John kicks the knife away, but Evans’s friend is already taking it, while the other one is grabbing Sherlock and pulls his arms onto his back, hard. John casts a quick glance at Evans – _he won’t be on his feet anytime soon, good_ – and just manages to avoid being fully attacked by the guy with the knife. He still catches a punch on his lips, but then John knocks him down as well, now grabbing the knife himself. The third man, obviously outnumbered by now, lets go of Sherlock and runs down the cobblestone alleyway. 

Evans and his friend are still on the floor. Sherlock looks at John. He is lifting one corner of his mouth in a smile and is definitely a bit impressed. He turns to Evans again. 

“And coming to _taking it up the arse_ – I guess that’s precisely what your friend here is dreaming about when he wanks in the shower. Thank you, John. I think we’re done here.” 

They walk away quickly, turning around the corner onto the main street just twenty yards away. The noise from pubs is louder. John is still out of breath and wiping some blood off his lip when Sherlock takes his hand and pushes him against the wall of the corner house. He kisses him, hard, and John tastes his own blood in his mouth. 

When Sherlock lets go of him, he breathes, “Thanks, John. That was great. Should have done that years ago.” 

“You know him?” 

“I know Evans. He was in my class before I went to boarding school. He was always like that. He usually bullied me, in return I told him things he didn't want to hear and then I'd end up with a bleeding lip if I wasn't quick enough.” 

John’s phone pings with an incoming text. 

_John, Matilda has been asleep since 8, she is in Sherlock’s room. Everything is fine. We’ll go to bed now, but we’ll take the baby monitor. Have a nice evening. –Margaret_

He thumbs a quick _Thanks a lot! Good night!_ in reply. 

“What is it?” Sherlock is curious. 

“Matilda’s asleep and your parents are going to bed now.” 

“Very well. We’ve got another fifteen minutes to walk until we’re home. Should be fine.” 

“What should be fine?” 

But Sherlock doesn’t answer and just smiles. 

\--- 

Fifteen minutes later, they arrive at the Holmes’s house. But instead of going inside, Sherlock takes John’s hand and walks past the house into the garden. The moon is shining quite brightly by now, and the whole place smells intensely like flowers. Sherlock stops in front of the garden house, which is something between a very solid green house and a small house of its own. He lifts a flower pot next to the door, finds the key and opens the door without making a single creak. 

“Come in,” he whispers. John follows him into a nice room he wouldn’t have expected from the outside: There is a desk, a book shelf, an old ottoman sofa and some other things that make the place surprisingly comfortable. It smells faintly like old cloth and dust, like plants and potting soil. 

“What is this?” 

“Garden house. My mother uses the green house next door for some of her plants and this room is her study in summer. Sometimes, when we were children, we slept here, just for the fun of it.” 

“And what are we…?” 

John wanted to add _doing here_ , but as soon as he thought it, he has already found the answer. 

“Oh.” He smiles. “I see.” 

The moon shines into the vast windows and bathes Sherlock in pale light. The contrast between his hair and his skin is almost like black and white. He leans against the sofa, just looking at John, whose mouth has gone dry and when he tries to speak, his voice is croaking. 

“Undress, Sherlock. I want to see you.” 

Sherlock very slowly starts undoing the buttons of his cuffs. He never stops looking at John and with his face partly hidden in the shade, John can’t really read him. He just knows that he has no idea how this beautiful, _beautiful_ man ended up here, taking his clothes off for him. Sherlock opens the buttons of his shirt. John looks at the white skin that is unveiled, his naked chest and arms when he takes off the shirt. He watches him slip out of his shoes and socks, opening the buckle of his belt and stepping out of his trousers. John’s breath goes a bit faster and he feels how he is getting hard. Which Sherlock is as well, the bulge in his black pants is just… _fuck_. John licks his lips, ruffles through his hair and his shirt is suddenly to warm. 

Sherlock comes closer, so close, until John can feel his breath on his skin and see his heart beat in the artery on his throat. Before John can think about what he should do now, Sherlock kisses him and slides his hand over his groin, making John gasp at the touch even through two layers of cloth. 

“Take that off,” he breathes into the kiss and John complies. But John takes his time, he doesn’t hurry, doesn’t rush. He wants Sherlock like mad, it is almost torturous to see him like this, almost naked, his whole body a fucking temptation. But John wants to draw it out, enjoy it. Savour every moment like a sip of great whiskey, feel it on his tongue, sense its flavour in his nose until it flows down to his stomach, leaving a warm trail and its taste lingering in his mouth. He is aroused, he is excited, he is vibrant with lust and life – but he isn’t nervous, not anymore. They have established their own rituals, have gotten to know each other this way. Although they are still exploring, still finding out and still have so many things to discover, both of them have gained more confidence and easiness. 

So John slowly takes off his shirt, just opening the first two buttons and then pulling it over his head. Sherlock gapes at him and John can see the amazement in his eyes. He opens his trousers, but doesn’t push them down. He gives a provocative shrug, implying everything from _See anything you like?_ to _Come here and do this, if you want this._

He can see Sherlock swallow when he clings his fingers into the waistband of his trousers and shoves them down. And he hears him inhale when he pulls down his pants. Kissing John’s jawline, his throat, his chest and his belly, Sherlock slides down in front of him. He sits back on his heels and touches John’s cock. Then he licks the underside, looking up at John and John momentarily forgets how to breathe. Sherlock’s eyes glitter silvery and his lips are dark and full and his tongue is… blowing his mind. 

John closes his eyes and feels the heat of Sherlock’s mouth closing around his cock. With a moan, John inhales again, getting lost in the sensation. Sherlock’s tongue plays with his slit, slides along the edges of the head, applies just the right amount of pressure to make John gasp. He takes him in his mouth as deep as he can. John is reduced to curses and moans, digging his hand into Sherlock’s dark curls and, finally, thrusts into his mouth. Sherlock groans and the vibration of his voice on his cock makes John shiver. 

John leans against the desk, he is panting hard and Sherlock is increasing the speed of his breathing with the motions of his mouth. Suddenly, he stops. With a last swirl of tongue, he lets John’s cock slip from his mouth. He is panting, too. 

“John, I need you. _Now._ Take me.” 

John pulls him up and kisses him hard, tasting his own precome in Sherlock’s mouth. Panting and kissing, they take the few steps to the sofa. Sherlock produces a towel out of nowhere and puts it on the ottoman. _He planned this,_ a distant voice in John’s mind says with a grin. 

“I thought I brought some lube… oh, damn it…” 

Sherlock looks around in the room, slightly annoyed. 

“Forget about it.” 

John catches Sherlock’s gaze and adds with a voice that doesn’t really allow contradiction, “Kneel down.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and he turns around. When he is on all fours, John kneels down behind him. He slowly licks down from his tail bone to his perineum and when his tongue touches Sherlock’s entrance, Sherlock makes a high-pitched, incoherent sound, totally taken by surprise. 

“Spread your legs a little wider, love,” John whispers. And when he starts licking him _there_ for real, Sherlock breathes a desperate _OhmygodfuckJOHN_. John sucks at the sensitive skin, plays there with his tongue, brushing it and feeling Sherlock shiver now. Sherlock’s breath is ragged and he whispers a string of _Ohmygodohmygodohmygod_ against the worn-out cover of the sofa. The intensity of Sherlock’s reaction takes John by surprise. They haven’t done this before (not even talked about it, either) but he never would have thought it would make Sherlock melt like this under his hands. Or his tongue. 

After a while, Sherlock sneaks a hand between John’s mouth and his ass, pushing two fingers in and groans when John starts kissing his balls instead. He quickly adds a third finger and finally begs, “Now, John. Do it.” 

When his hand is gone, John licks his entrance one last time, pushing in his tongue. Sherlock squirms, panting, and John draws it out, enjoying this. 

“Aaargh, God, John, I won’t last…” 

And then he fucks him. He moves slowly, but intently, pushing in far and moving out, trying to give as much sensation to the tight muscle tissue and the almost over-stimulated skin as possible. Sherlock pushes his hips against John with every thrust, desperate for friction. 

The skin on Sherlock’s back is glistening with moisture and in the pale light, his scars are reduced to shadows and fine lines. Instead, John can see his muscles moving, the elegant ridge of his spine and his shoulder blades. Within a split second, the images from his teenage fantasy come back to his mind and he almost has to laugh when he realizes that he has everything, _fucking everything_ he has dreamt of. With this ease, the heat and tightness of Sherlock’s body feel even more intense and his orgasm comes crashing in, overwhelming him. He thrusts hard a few more times, distantly hearing Sherlock shout out his name when he climaxes himself. 

He sinks back on his heels, catching his breath and lying his head on the small of Sherlock’s back, who has sunken down to the sofa as well. 

“You alright?” John asks when he has got enough air to speak again. 

“God. Yes.” Sherlock is just as breathless as he is. 

They lie there for a while, Sherlock’s hands playing with John’s hair and John gently sliding his fingers over Sherlock’s hipbones. He kisses them and says, “Let’s go to bed. It is getting a little chilly here.” Sherlock bows down to him, kissing John gently. 

They put their trousers and shirts on and walk barefoot through the cool grass in the garden, through the hallway and up the stairs while they sneak up to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock vanishes in the bathroom and when John enters the bedroom, he hears Matilda's light breaths. She is sleeping peacefully in her small travel bed. John just looks at her. 

He is still standing there when Sherlock comes in. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” He whispers against John’s ear. 

“She’s perfect. She’s a gift. Never would have expected all… _that_.” John is lost for words, nothing he can say could possibly convey the amount of joy and thankfulness he feels right now. Sherlock wraps his arms around him, holding him for a long while. 

They lie in bed a short while later, after John has been to the bathroom himself. He was looking at his reflection in the mirror as if asking that other John if all this really was real. When he is cuddled against Sherlock in bed, John thinks of how he has been letting go of all the discipline and all his fighting that had been accompanying him ever since he was a teenager during these past months. _Yes, bringing up Matilda is a full time job for more than one person. I don’t know if I would have made it without Sherlock. But apart from that, I am just enjoying this. I’m not working. Not trying to prove myself. Not trying to accomplish anything. And Sherlock and Matilda are all I want and I never knew it._

He is holding his breath at the magnitude of this realization and something like panic is building up in his chest, he doesn’t even know why. Then Sherlock touches his lips, “Breathe, John. Everything is fine.” And they fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. I hope you've enjoyed it!  
> Thanks for the lovely comments you have left here so far, I love each and every one of them. :)
> 
> I have to thank my betas, @tooselin and @ennisapril, again (and I can't do that enough), who did an amazing job despite broken, soup-covered laptops and handled this ever-growing thing just wonderfully. @couchpoppy, thank you for your patience and your helpful answers to all my messages starting with "I've a got a plot question _again_..." 
> 
> I have actually started writing a sequel and that hotchpotch of dialogue, finalized scenes and plot notes is at 14k already. :) Still I can't promise I'll manage posting it before S4 airs.  
>   
> UPDATE Feb 13, 2017:  
> The past two months have been rather busy for me - but today I re-read the 22k of the sequel I have written so far. I'm back to writing!  
> \---  
> UPDATE May 17, 2017:  
> Things are still rather busy and will stay busy - so the sequel is progressing rather slowly, but there _is_ progress. The fic is (including notes and everything) at 41k and it looks as if it would turn out to be quite a bit longer than this one. Also, angstier. Things are getting difficult. (But there'll be a happy ending, of course. :) )  
>  \---  
> UPDATE June 19, 2017:  
> The sequel is at 57k - more than half of the fic is beta'ed and finalized, the rest is plotted and half of the remaining scenes are already written. I plan to start posting within the next four weeks, with updates weekly or every two weeks. Stay tuned!  
> \---  
>  **UPDATE June 28, 2017:  
> **  
>  **I will start posting the sequel on July 10. :D**

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from Elbow's "Fight boy blue/Lunette".
> 
> (...)  
> What can be said of the cigarettes smoked  
> A prop for a joke or a mark on the clock  
> If I stopped would the bus ever come  
> Would the dawn ever kiss me forgivingly knowing what’s done  
> Would the drivel make scribble, make sense and then song  
> Would the woodbines denied black another man’s lungs  
> Perverse as it may sound I sometimes believe  
> The tip to my lips just reminds me to breathe  
> 


End file.
